Its nothing to worry about
by gemstone1234
Summary: Sherlock has difficulty navigating life. There are lots of reasons why and this fic explores some of the reasons and their effects. I'm not good at summaries, you'll have to actually read it to know what this is about. Lots of angst and there'll be a lot of H/C in the last chapter.
1. I'm fine (I'm not fine, please help me)

_This is going to be an angsty piece and likely full of triggers so I will put a trigger warning for each chapter._

_Trigger warning: child abuse_

_Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, no matter how much I wish they did._

_I hope you like this fic. There will be eight chapters in total and I'm not going to promise that my updates will be frequent, I have exams and the like. Anyway, enjoy and don't forget to review at the end. *Hint hint*_

**It's nothing to worry about**

**Chapter 1- I'm fine (I'm not fine, please help me)**

There was a scream of terror which emanated from cellar; it was a loud but high pitched scream which was muffled by the thick stone flooring and the heavy door. Any ordinary father who heard his child scream in such a way would be worried and run to their child's aid. However this father did not, he turned towards the door in anger bordering on rage. "Shut up! There's no point in you screaming, nobody cares because you're so worthless. I'm going away for a few days and I have locked you in there until I get back. I know you too well; I know you'd get up to no good. So you will remain in there and keep quiet until I get back."

Mere silence was the response and the father smiled. His child was far too reckless and excitable and he had a tendency to misbehave. It needed to be beaten out of him. The father remained stationary and silent for few minutes to see if his younger son would break down again. When he did not he smiled again to himself, at last the useless child was getting the idea. He began to head towards the front door to get into the car, his footsteps echoing loudly on the ground. "My?" came a small voice from the cellar. It almost sounded broken.

"I thought I told you to shut the hell up!" bellowed the father. "Mycroft left for university, he doesn't care about you and neither do I. He has a future ahead of him, but you… All you can bring this family is shame and embarrassment. You think about that while I am away Sherlock Holmes. Also think about this, you should not show emotion, it makes you seem even weaker. A real Holmes does not have emotion let alone show it." With that he stormed out of the house to where his driver and car were waiting leaving the young boy trembling and quivering in the darkness trying to will the tears that had already fallen to go back into his eyes.

* * *

Sherlock touched the metal door tenderly, knowing John was just the other side of it. The loud mechanical noise was comforting too, it meant that someone was trying to get him out, it meant that someone cared. He had been so stupid, so very stupid for getting caught in this situation. He'd been tricked by the petty criminal, thinking that the man had run into the room so followed where he'd thought he'd gone. In fact the petty criminal did not run in there, but closed the door on the unsuspecting Sherlock before he had a chance to react leaving him in complete and utter silence.

At first Sherlock had the comfort of his phone, even without signal, to brighten up his surroundings but the battery died after a couple of hours leaving him isolated in the blackness. It was five hours after he had been initially trapped that John had found him. Luckily the detective had bothered to leave a note informing his flat mate where he was going so, when night fell in the real world and nobody had heard from Sherlock, John went looking. And it had not been a moment too soon. Memories that Sherlock was sure he'd put in the deep and forgotten places of his mind palace reappeared, presenting themselves to him in their full glory. He cried out Mycroft's name longingly but there was nobody to hear. He could feel the sting of his Father's words, the aching loneliness, the fear and the pain he endured as a child. It all resurfaced causing tears to flow silently and unnoticed down his cheeks.

It was John's voice which soon broke through the solitude which was once again threatening to consume him. "Sherlock, are you here Sherlock?" The detective's eyes snapped open from whatever hell he'd just been reliving. It was momentarily forgotten as he scrambled forward towards the door to try and get closer to John, his John. Unfortunately in his panicked mind he misjudged the distance he was from the door and ended up crashing into it with a dull thud which was soon followed by a groan of pain. "Is that you Sherlock?" John shouted again, heading towards the door hurriedly.

"Yes, It's me," he confirmed, schooling his voice into his usual measured and unemotional tone.

"How long have you been in here, are you ok?"  
"I'm fine, yes. Please, just get me out of here." At this point his voice slipped slightly, betraying the true panic he was feeling. He silently prayed that John did not pick up on this but he did.

"Are you sure you're ok mate?"

"Yes." The detective did not trust his voice enough to speak in full sentences anymore.

"I'm going to have to call Lestrade; this door is some kind of security door. It needs a code. I'll stay right here though." Although Sherlock was annoyed that he had shown his emotions to the doctor he was incredibly grateful John was just a few meters away and that he could still hear the man speaking. "Right, he's on his way, probably will be here in about ten minutes." John slid down the door to sit on the floor and seemed to know that Sherlock would need the reassurance of his voice so he began to recall the events of his day. Mundane though it was Sherlock did not care, he was simply pleased that he had been found. He did not listen to a word that his friend was saying, he simply basked in his baritone voice, relishing in the fact that as long as John was talking he did not have to recall those nightmarish memories.

It was almost exactly ten minutes later that Lestrade arrived, sirens blaring. After that there was a lot of noise. The frantic shouting as Lestrade called various people to find the code then the sound of a saw as they tried to cut through the metal. Eventually they had to resort to a small amount of explosive to blast off the hinges. All this noise, though it did stave off the worst of his memories, didn't keep the ones of his Father and Mycroft shouting at each other the other side of the cellar door. Mycroft was the apple of his Father's eye, they often fought but Mycroft was the only one their Father would listen to. Their Father would never lay a finger on Mycroft but wouldn't hesitate to beat the living daylights out of his younger son if the mood took him. The elder of the sons often used his Father's affection to defend Sherlock but he wasn't always there.

All of a sudden there was a loud noise and Sherlock swore that he most certainly did not let out a whimper, that is not what a real Holmes would do. The door was quickly removed and the dull light was welcome. Vision, no matter how limited, had been welcomed by the younger Holmes after his periods of imprisonment. He dashed out of the room which he had spent the last few hours in, fighting hard to control his breathing and emotional response; it would not be good if anyone picked up on his emotional state. His heart was pounding but as long as John did not try to take his pulse then everything should be ok.

"Are you ok Sherlock?" asked John gently. The detective took a deep breath and made sure his face had the neutral expression it ordinarily bore before turning to face his best friend.

"I'm fine John; did anyone manage to catch the criminal I was chasing?" Sherlock impressed with himself for his convincing performance.

"No, I'm afraid we did not," replied Lestrade walking over to join the two of them.

"Of course you didn't, you're all incompetent fools. Well John, we'd better dash, we have ourselves a criminal to catch."

"No, I think we'll leave this one to Lestrade. As a DI he should do some work you know," John chuckled but then his face turned serious again. "You need some rest, you look exhausted. Let's go back to the flat so you can get some rest then try again in the morning." Much to both Lestrade's and John's surprise Sherlock conceded without any argument. Within two minutes the two flatmates found themselves in a cab heading back to Baker Street.

The army doctor knew that there was something wrong with Sherlock, something he didn't know. It could have been a simple case of claustrophobia which was causing his friend to act slightly off but he doubted it. Sherlock was never one to make things simple. John pretended that he did not see the slight tremor which ran through his best friend's body and the tear tracks which marred the pale skin on his cheeks. He wanted more than anything to comfort his friend, to take him into an embrace and tell him everything was ok. John knew Sherlock liked his personal space and would not take kindly to such an invasion.

Sherlock sat on the other side of the cab trying desperately to act as though he were fine but wishing John would see through the façade. The constant pretence wore him down. He desperately wished John would reach out and comfort him but he was unwilling to initiate such an action himself.


	2. I'm tired (I can't take this anymore)

_There is a small mention of child abuse but I don't think that there is anything else that is triggery in this chapter._

_Thank you to those who have favourited/followed/reviewed, love you all! Also, do feel free to review for this chapter, getting reviews are one of my favourite things about writing fanfics, I love to hear what you all think. _

**It's nothing to worry about**

**Chapter 2- I'm just tired (I can't take this anymore)**

A cold bowl of soup sat on the coffee table untouched next to the empty mug which had previously been filled with tea. The young man lay stretched out of the sofa, staring at the ceiling with his hands in a prayer position. He didn't even flinch when his flat-mate barged through the door weighed down with several shopping bags. "It's fine, I can manage," muttered John to himself, half hoping Sherlock would hear him and take the hint despite the fact that he knew the probability of this happening.

After dumping the shopping on the kitchen floor he turned back to Sherlock to say something but the words didn't make it out of his mouth. He saw the bowl of soup sat on the side, the soup he had given to Sherlock when he left for work at one and made him promise to eat it. It was now nine at night and it didn't look as if the soup had been touched; at least he'd drunk the tea. The detective had been losing weight recently, the doctor in John noticed and worried hence his recent attempts to coax even the most meagre of bites down his best friend's throat. Of course the doctor had tried asking if there was anything wrong but merely received a scathing comment in reply. It had been a long shot anyway.

"Did you do anything while I was out Sherlock?" John asked. No reply.

"When was the last time you ate anything?" Even when Sherlock was in a silent mood he'd usually get angry at being asked that but this time he did not so much as batter an eyelid. One last attempt then; "Sherlock, I'm going to invite Mycroft over for a cup of tea. I thought it would be nice, we haven't seen him in a while." Still nothing and John shook his head despairingly but resigned himself to the fact that he would not be getting anything out of Sherlock tonight. Instead he removed the soup and mug from the table, quickly made himself some dinner and sat in front of the TV finding he was actually enjoying having an evening in.

* * *

_Mrs Hudson's done the dusting in here, and the vacuuming, three days ago while John and I were out on the case. The dust is just beginning to become obvious again. She walked into John's seat, she tried to put it back but she got it wrong, it isn't aligned with the floorboards correctly. John made me soup before he went out, chicken soup because he knows that is my favourite, he's worried, he's noticed that I'm losing weight. He's back again now; he was working at the surgery. It obviously wasn't a good day, the speck of blood on his shirt is indicative of that. _**Shut up!**

He hated it when his mind ran off like that, sometimes there would be so much information that his mind simply couldn't cope. He'd keep on noticing and deducing and get lost within the deductions and sometimes it would be almost impossible to rouse him from that state. Mycroft had once sedated him so when he came around again he was ok. His Father had hated his deductions; he'd lashed out at him whenever he made a deduction. And there was that one time when a load of the officials had come to the Holmes' house for dinner and Sherlock had happened to have wandered through the dining room while they were eating. It wasn't his fault the chancellor was cheating on his wife and it was not his fault the wife was cheating on the chancellor. He'd thought that they'd have been grateful for him pointing it out; it meant thatwould no longer have to tiptoe around each other anymore.

Apparently it was not an acceptable thing to announce before all of the guests. His father promptly excused himself and marched Sherlock up the stairs and into his room, harshly slapping him across the face so that the he fell to the ground. He roughly picked Sherlock off the ground by his shirt collar and shoved him into the wardrobe, locking it shut. "I'll be back for you soon, you will pay dearly for this my boy." And pay he did, that was a memory he did not care to indulge. Never again did he venture outside of his room if his Father had people over for dinner.

Sherlock glanced at John from the corner of his eye, careful not to move in case his friend saw him. The smaller man was sitting watching TV, something so mundane but John was not mundane. He was fascinating and kind. He was not like the others. Anderson and Donovan hurled abuse at him; Lestrade and Mrs Hudson were good to him but didn't understand, Molly loved him but didn't know him. John was the one who tried to understand, he knew he would never truly understand but always tried and always, somehow, knew what to say.

Even with John's presence the words from his past, _pathetic, weirdo, waste of space,_ and the words from his present, _freak, psychopath, let down, _seemed to plague him. They stung far more that he would ever admit to anyone. He let out a groan and curled in on himself without even noticing. Once Anderson had attacked him, on a crime scene. Lestrade had been away but texted him to ask him to help with a case a different DI was on. Reluctantly Sherlock complied, if he hadn't been so bored he wouldn't have said yes. The DI instantly took a dislike to him as Sherlock told him that everything they had gathered from the crime scene was wrong. There was a space of about ten minutes that it was only Anderson and Sherlock upstairs in the house. Anderson uttered the word _freak_ so Sherlock had uttered something regarding Anderson's intelligence. Anderson was stronger than he looked, tackling the consulting detective to the ground, away from the body, and punching him repetitively. There had been bruises on his neck too where Anderson had pushed just a little too hard. Sherlock was sure the DI knew exactly what had happened but he could tell he would deny it had happened if Sherlock pressed charges. The consulting detective also didn't want a certain big brother to get involved so he just left it at that. Though, until John came along, Sherlock refused to work with anyone who was not DI Lestrade.

"**Sherlock!"**

He had never been liked in his life, not really. Usually he managed to convince himself that he liked it like that. And now that he had John he honestly didn't care if nobody else liked him, just so long as he had John's approval. But Sherlock knew he did not deserve the doctor, kind Dr John Watson. The man cared too much, was too patient and too kind. There had to be a catch.

There was a sudden pressure on his shoulder and Sherlock jumped up in surprise, seeing John's concerned face just inches away from his own. "Are you ok mate? You were groaning but you weren't asleep were you?"

"No," replied Sherlock, trying to sound cold and detached. He was somewhat unsuccessful when his voice sounded croaky and unused.

"Are you ok though? Are you in pain?"

"Um, n-no," Sherlock stumbled trying to think of a valid excuse. "I'm, I'm just tired," he stated successfully, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, feigning exhaustion.

"Mhmm," mumbled John, obviously not totally believing his friend. He looked at Sherlock with a gaze that the detective recognised. It was his diagnosing look, trying to perceive what was wrong. When he couldn't figure it out he didn't pursue the matter any further, something Sherlock was thankful for. "You know Sherlock; there is an obvious cure for that. Go to bed for once." Sherlock nodded and stood up.

"I think I might take that advice. Goodnight John." With that Sherlock headed for his room. He was struggling with life at the moment, he was just grateful for John, because if it wasn't for John surely it would have overwhelmed him by now.

John gazed after his friend, there was definitely something very wrong with him but he couldn't place his finger on it. He'd leave the man be another couple of days. If things did not improve he'd have to try something else. He just hoped Sherlock did improve.

_Thank you for reading. Pretty please drop me a review. _


	3. I already ate (I starve myself)

_**Trigger warning: mentions of an eating disorder.**_

_**So here is the third instalment. Thank you for all of you have stuck with this so far and I thank everyone who has responded to this fic in any way, especially those of you who have reviewed. Actually, now that I've mentioned reviews I feel now would be a goof time for me to remind you to review… :D**_

**It's nothing to worry about**

**Chapter 3- I already ate (I starve myself)**

John buzzed busily around the flat clearing up the mess which consisted of both his and Sherlock's stuff, but mostly Sherlock's. Glorious smells emanated from the kitchen where Mrs Hudson was cooking. It was certainly an improvement on the foul stench of decomposing flesh or noxious gases which were a result of Sherlock's far too frequent experiments. Usually the best smell that ever came from there was the smell of John making toast and half the time that was burnt anyway.

And the reason for all of this excitement was that today was a special day, today was Sherlock's 30th birthday. They were having a surprise birthday party for him. And what he meant by surprise was John hadn't told him but it was more than likely that Sherlock had figured out. And what he meant by party was there were a few people having a home-cooked meal. Mrs Hudson was making a big lasagne, which was Sherlock's favourite meal, and a Pavlova for pudding. It was John's task to make the flat look respectable ready for their guests to arrive which was proving quite a challenge. It was more like an archaeological dig than simply cleaning a flat. There were mugs he didn't even recognise lying about the place and more worryingly test tubes containing unknown substances buried under many years' worth of case notes.

John himself was rather looking forward to this meal; Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly were going to be there. He'd reluctantly invited Mycroft but had been relieved when the elder Holmes declined. He still didn't know whether or not he was joking when he'd said he didn't want to risk being blamed for organising such an event. Either way, things were all going to plan and John really did hope Sherlock would appreciate the effort at least. It was a long-shot but one could still hope. There was still one problem though, Sherlock had left the flat early in the morning and nobody knew why or where he was going. Nobody could get a hold of Mycroft to see if they could see him on CCTV so it was anyone's guess where Sherlock was. Not that him doing something similar to this was uncommon, it was just very unhelpful for it to happen today of all days since nobody knew when he was coming back. It was very possible that they would end up having his birthday party without him being there.

Thankfully this was not the case, Sherlock returned to the flat at about seven, Lestrade and Molly had already arrived and they were all sitting around drinking tea. The detective gave the room and its occupants a quick cursory glance taking in all the information there was available and making deductions. "I don't celebrate my birthday John," he stated almost scathingly.

"Well we celebrate your birthday so get yourself sorted and sit down; I'll make you a cup of tea." In response Sherlock gave a snort of what sounded like derision but disappeared into his room to switch his tight suit and shirt for loose fitting trousers and a t-shirt and his jacket for a dressing gown. He then re-emerged and did as John said, soon finding a hot cup of tea being pressed into his hands. Everybody else had dressed up nicely so it was safe to say Sherlock stood out quite significantly, something he was quite un-phased by.

"I got you a little something Sherlock; it's nothing much but…" Molly trailed off nervously, handing him a perfectly wrapped present complete with bow. Sherlock opened his mouth to fire off some deductions about it but they died in his throat when he glanced at John who was giving him his 'be nice' look.

"Thank you Molly," Sherlock said almost convincingly.

"Open it then," Lestrade prompted when he saw the detective was going to put the gift down. If it wasn't opened now it would soon be lost in the normal chaos that was normally 221b Baker Street, though John done a good job of cleaning it up. Sighing he brought the present back towards him and meticulously began to remove the bow and then the paper. _He's one of those people who like to keep the wrapping as intact as possible_ John thought, this idea amused him slightly.

Eventually all of the paper had been removed and Sherlock ran his fingers along the leather casing, impressed with the quality. He slowly opened the case to reveal a full dissection kit. The new blades shone brightly and something close to a genuine smile played at the corners of his mouth. He looked at her intensely before saying, "This is appropriate." This was as close as anyone really ever got to being thanked by Sherlock genuinely so she returned his half smile warmly. "You are most welcome." A moment later there was a beeping sound coming from the kitchen and Mrs Hudson jumped from her seat seemingly to temporarily forget about her hip. "Dinner's ready, I'm afraid the table isn't big enough so we'll just have to eat off our laps. We'll do the rest of the presents later."

"She darted off into the kitchen and opened the oven. A wave of delicious smells swept across the room leaving everyone with a small grin on their face. Everyone except Sherlock that is. He sat there expressionless but seemingly to have paled slightly. Only John noticed this and sent him a concerned glance but got up to assist Mrs Hudson in the kitchen and to pour everyone some drinks. He'd bought some red wine for the occasion. He knew Sherlock did, on occasion, have a small quantity of alcohol so John poured him some. If he didn't want it he wouldn't feel obliged to have any.

Soon they were all tucking into their lasagne with gusto. John always knew Mrs Hudson was a good cook, he was starting to develop a bit of a belly to prove it, but this simply surpassed all his expectations. Sherlock, however, was not having quite the same wonderful experience as his friend. Slowly he picked all the bits of cheese off the top and then began to separate the layers, effectively dismantling the entire meal.

"You alright mate?" Lestrade asked when he observed Sherlock's odd behaviour. The detective either didn't hear him or managed to ignore him pretty effectively as there was no response.

"Sherlock?" John prompted as he was sitting next to the younger man. This made Sherlock look up suddenly. Sorry, what?" he asked completely confused.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade repeated and Sherlock nodded then turned to Mrs Hudson, his face the epitome of regret. This set John's initial alarm bells off; if Sherlock did regret something usually he would most definitely hide it under his usual mask of indifference.

"I am very sorry Mrs Hudson," he began. His voice sounded sincere and slightly saddened. "You know I adore you lasagne and this meal is delicious but I am very full. I don't think I'll be able to eat this."

"Why, are you ill Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson asked worriedly.

"No, no I am quite well."

"Then why can't you eat it?" John asked. Now everyone's attention was on Sherlock and the detective was beginning to get nervous and slightly agitated. The doctor in John picked up on this and who looked at Lestrade who seemed to get the message and carried on with his meal, Molly followed suit, though they were both still listening.

"I was out for a meal with Mycroft for my birthday, I am now quite full. He took me to his favourite restaurant and naturally they serve rather large portions there."

"Really?" asked John, disbelievingly. "You went with Mycroft for dinner. He took you willingly and you went willingly?"

"Not quite. Mummy made him promise to take me. Nobody dares break a promise to Mummy, not even Mycroft. And I daren't be the reason for him not being able to keep his promise."

"It's alright dear, don't worry about it. I know you would have had some if you could manage it. Will you be having any pudding?"

"Ah, no thank you Mrs Hudson, I don't think I could even manage another bite. If you put some in the fridge for me I might have some tomorrow." She nodded and smiled as she stood up to collect the plates.

John stared at Sherlock incredulously; he knew the man was lying. The real question was why. The doctor decided not to pursue it any further, well, not right at that moment anyway. Not when there were so many people about. He would do it later.

It was about midnight that everybody had left. It had been too much socialising for Sherlock to cope with since there had not been a case to discuss or focus on. He'd disappeared off to his room at half-eleven. He had done quite well though; John was quite pleased because he had obviously worked hard not to insult anyone.

Once the flat was quiet John busied himself with clearing away all the used glasses and mugs. Mrs Hudson had tried to stay to wash them all up but John had insisted that she go back down to her flat to relax. It was that moment Sherlock reappeared and John knew that he had to ask then or he'd keep putting it off. "Why did you lie?" John demanded; Sherlock hated it when people beat around the bush. The detective's head snapped up from whatever it was he had been doing.

"Why did I lie about what?"

"I'm not stupid despite what you may think. You lied about going to see Mycroft."

"No I didn't!" Sherlock shouted, seeming just a little bit too defensive."

"Do you want me to call Mycroft to find out because I will? He gave me his personal number so I won't even have to go through all his secretaries." The younger man was beginning to look a bit uncomfortable. He was looking down slightly and he began to rapidly move his fingers in the way he did when he was agitated.

"What's going on Sherlock? You can tell me, you can trust me," John said, his voice firm yet gentle.

"I just wasn't hungry and I didn't want to upset Mrs Hudson," Sherlock whispered.

"Uh huh and when was the last time you ate? The last time I saw you eat was three days ago and it was just a slice of toast."

"I'm not hungry."

"That's not what I asked Sherlock." John's voice was now hinting at the very beginning of frustration.

"I'm not a baby John, I can take care of myself, and I don't need you mothering me constantly. Need I remind you that I survived all the other years of my life without you? Just stop asking me questions. Damn it!" the detective exploded as he stormed off to his room, slamming the door behind him.

John just stood there and shook his head at his friend's temper. He felt slightly guilty since it was Sherlock's birthday but he had to ask. He couldn't pretend that everything was ok. If something happened because he'd simply pretended there was nothing wrong he would never be able to forgive himself. But now he knew he was going to have to start monitoring Sherlock's eating habits very closely indeed.

* * *

The detective lay curled up into a small ball on his bed, tears slowly running down his cheeks. He didn't like shouting at John but it was the only way he could get out of the room without letting his surprisingly perceptive friend know he was on the verge of tears.

Why did people have to try to make him eat? Couldn't they see that he needed to lose weight? He needed to stay in shape so he could chase criminals. He needed to be thin so that there wasn't something else people could make fun of him for. Being known as _Freak_ was hard enough but if he was known as _Fatty_ on top of that, even the thought of it was quite unbearable. It was too reminiscent of what his father would call him when he was little, except the ways his father put it were considerably less savoury. Sherlock hoped John would forgive him for shouting at him. A sharp ache careened through his empty stomach causing him to groan quietly and curl into an even tighter ball. Fresh tears began to form in his eyes. Some birthday this turned out to be.

**I hope you enjoyed reading that. Please review, reviews really do make my day. **


	4. Leave me alone (care enough to stay)

**It's nothing to worry about**

**Chapter 4- Leave me alone (show me you care enough to stay)**

"Freak!" Donovan shouted at Sherlock. It wasn't uncommon for Donovan and Anderson to gang up on Sherlock on a crime scene, especially if John wasn't there. But the DI didn't bother to interfere; Sherlock could hold his own ground and preferred to do so than for someone else to defend him.

"Sergeant Donovan, may I suggest you buy a thesaurus. It may help to widen your very limited vocabulary."

"Shut up freak!" Anderson retorted after a momentary hesitance on the part of you Donovan.

"Oh, Anderson, perhaps you would benefit from buying a thesaurus too. Though, it would be more financially viable if you shared one, maybe you could keep it at your house. I mean, she stays there enough. When your wife is away though, of course."

By this point Anderson was positively quivering with rage and Sherlock had a cocky smile on his face. This time it was Donovan's turn to take over the Sherlock-bashing. "At least we have people who care about us. Who do you have? You have no one; you're just a sad lonely man." The consulting detective gave a snort of derision.

"I have John," he stated simply.

"Really?" asked Anderson in a scathing tone. "What makes you think he won't drop you in an instant if he gets a better rate on a flat or makes friends with someone else? I know that if I lived with you that's what I'd do." A flash of hesitance and worry shot across his face but Donovan and Anderson were like sharks, they could sense fear.

Immediately he replaced any look of doubt he may have had with his usual cold, calculating and uncaring look but the Sergeant and forensic investigator saw it and they both knew that they had him. "To be honest I'm surprised he has stuck around for this long," Sergeant Donovan commented nonchalantly as she resumed whatever she had been doing before the shouting had started, Sherlock didn't care, he was no longer interested. Anderson and Donovan had caught a raw nerve and they knew it. "Nobody likes living with a freak, especially not one as messed up as you." Sherlock backed up a little at this, was that really what John thought of him? He knew that everybody else thought that but he thought John was different. John was his friend, wasn't he?

"What's wrong freak, where's your boyfriend or has he abandoned you to?" Anderson demanded in sick pleasure. He was enjoying their new found power over the detective. Despite being slightly shorter than the man Anderson approached him threateningly and Sherlock, who was suddenly not feeling himself, backed away. He felt the sadden urge to escape the repulsive man.

"He's my friend," muttered Sherlock, just as much for his reassurance as to inform Anderson of this fact. Sally looked up from what she was doing and smiled. The usually cocky detective was almost backed up against the wall and she knew it would only take a little more to push him over the metaphorical edge. She walked over to where Anderson was standing and took her place next to him. "What was that Freak? You didn't sound very confident there. Are you sure he's your friend because if I were you I wouldn't get your hopes up. I've heard him talking to Lestrade whilst you're distracted and I'm pretty sure friends shouldn't be saying that about each other." Now the younger man was up against the wall and there was a horrified look plastered on his face. Donovan put her hand on his shoulder in a mock-comforting way causing the detective to freeze. "Face it Freak, John would be better off without you."

"What the hell is going on in here?" demanded the unusually angry voice of one DI Lestrade. The two Scotland Yard employees immediately backed off and Sherlock darted past Lestrade, knocking into him on the way past, but not bothering to stop. Lestrade turned a glare towards the two members of his team. "I don't know what happened in here but I fully intend to find out. It took years for him to trust anyone and if the two of you have ruined that you're going to have John Watson and me to answer to. I'm going to go and find him now. I hope you two realise how unprofessional you have been. You're off the case. Go back to Scotland Yard and wait in my office. I'll meet you there as soon as I know he isn't going to do anything stupid."

Lestrade hurried out of the building and was relieved to see Sherlock standing outside. He had been afraid that the younger man would have run off and hidden himself away somewhere. If Sherlock wanted to hide the only person who had any chance of finding him was Mycroft and Lestrade wanted to keep the power-obsessed older brother out of the situation at all costs. The DI gave the consulting detective a quick once-over with his eyes. He had regained his cold and aloof exterior but there was something not quite right with the man and Lestrade knew it, even if he couldn't put his finger specifically on what it was. "Come on Sherlock, we'll get you back to Baker Street." Sherlock nodded and followed the older man into the back of one of the police cars. "Could you take us to Baker Street?" the DI asked the constable who was driving who nodded and sped off.

A couple of times Lestrade tried to get out of Sherlock what had happened but the younger man wasn't having any of it. He just rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window and stared out. In the end Lestrade sighed and dialled John's number. "Hello Greg?" John answered a few seconds later.

"Hi John, I was just wondering if you were in the flat."

"Um, yeah but I'm about to go out and get some shopping. Why? Is everything alright?"

"I have no idea mate if I'm honest. We're on our way over, probably be with you in 5 minutes. Just make sure you're in when we arrive. I'll explain when we get there."

The five minutes it took to get to the flat were possibly the longest five minutes of Lestrade's life. Sherlock refused to talk and Lestrade could do nothing but stare at the younger man in concern. When they did finally arrive Sherlock ran straight out of the car and past John who had obviously been waiting downstairs for them. The doctor watched the detective as he went up the stairs and then turned his attention to the DI who was now standing in the doorway. "What the hell happened?" John asked with concern permeating his voice.

"I haven't got the full story yet but I will find out. We were on the crime scene and I left the room to see if anyone had done a background check of the victim. When I left Sherlock was doing whatever it is that he does and Donovan and Anderson were working. A couple of minutes later I heard shouting, nothing out of the ordinary there, but the shouting stopped quickly so I went up to check Sherlock hadn't knocked them unconscious or anything. It was quite the opposite I'm afraid. Anderson and Donovan had him backed up against the wall and he looked scared. I don't know what they said to him but trust me; the two of them are in a lot of trouble."

John nodded slowly trying to imagine what on earth Anderson or Donovan could have said that might have triggered such a reaction in his normally unemotional best friend. He came up with nothing. "Do you know what sort of thing might have elicited this reaction?" John asked Lestrade.

"Haven't the foggiest I'm afraid. I was kind of hoping that you'd be able to tell me."

"Right, well, I'll go and see if he's ok. If he tells me anything then I'll let you know, ok?"

"Thanks, I haven't got a word out of him since so don't get your hopes up."

The doctor closed the door as the DI left and sighed, this was not going to be easy but nothing ever was when Sherlock was concerned. Slowly he headed up the stairs trying to put off the inevitable. Sherlock was not on the sofa where he usually would be which was not a good sign. The next place to try was Sherlock's room. "Sherlock, are you in there?" he asked as he tapped gently on the door. No reply, not that he had really expected one. He opened the door. His friend was sitting on his bed staring at the wall opposite him.

"Are you alright mate?" John asked approaching him. Still no reply, not even a flicker of the eye to show Sherlock registered John's presence. This time John placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder to try to evoke a response and he got one. The younger man flinched violently from the contact and he sharply turned his face up to see John. When he realised who it was he relaxed slightly but there was obviously still some tension there, tension that he wasn't used to seeing in the man. "John, what are you doing here?"  
"I just came in to see if you were ok."

"Hmm, what? Yes, I'm fine. You can leave now."

"Are you sure you're fine, you've been acting a little weird lately?" John asked, partly as a friend and partly as a doctor. He sat on the bed next to Sherlock.

"I'm ok, really. I just need to think." His voice sounded unsure.

"Sherlock, look…"

"Please John, I am fine. There is nothing wrong with me. So please, just leave me alone!" He sounded angry so John just nodded, stood up and left closing the door behind him.

There were noises coming from the kitchen, John was probably making himself a cup of tea. Sherlock sighed, the room felt inexplicably empty without the army doctor in there with him. He'd left so quickly, it was like he had no resolve, no desire to actually help him. Perhaps Anderson and Donovan were right, it would be the first time they ever had been, but it was always possible. What if John didn't really like him? It was probable; there were very few people who genuinely liked him, if any, and even fewer who could put up living with him. Normally this didn't bother him but it was a problem when John was involved.

He lifted a shaky hand and opened the top drawer of his bedside cabinet and lifted out the pen knife and slowly rolled up his sleeve. He laid the cool blade against his scar-littered alabaster skin and just held it there. Part of him was telling him to stop because John would not approve but the other part of him was telling him John didn't like him so wouldn't care. It was this part of him that won out in the end, causing him to press the blade into his skin and blood to pool around it. It was this moment John chose to knock on the door again. With practised speed Sherlock rolled down his sleeve and threw the knife under the sheet, out of sight.

John didn't bother waiting for an answer from the younger man, he walked straight in. "Look, I know that you wanted me to leave but I thought I'd make you a cup of tea. We're British so it's an unspoken rule that tea is the cure for anything." Sherlock took the steaming cup and gave John one of his genuine smiles as a way of saying thank you. Just before he left John leant on the doorframe and spoke to Sherlock. "You do know I'll listen if there's anything you want to tell me?" Sherlock nodded and John walked out of the room.

"John!" Sherlock shouted just before he shut the door.

"Yes?"

"We are friends aren't we?" Sherlock asked after convincing himself this was the only way of really knowing. He could always tell if John was lying.

"Yes, we are."

"Good, um yes, that's good. Thank you."

_**Thank you for reading. You all know the drill now. I wrote a chapter so I would be very, very happy if you were to write a review. 3**_


	5. I'm cold (you can't see my scars) part 1

_So this one is going to be a bit of a sick-fic, I had a request for some H/C and if I'm honest I've been wanting to write some. And finally I have the perfect excuse… Enjoy_

_There will also be mentions of self-harm._

**It's nothing to worry about**

**Chapter 5- I'm just cold (I don't want you to see my scars)**

In a normal flat at three in the morning there would usually be blissful silence which might only be disturbed by the occasional siren screaming past or by the cries of a small child. However 221b was not a normal flat. Time in 221b was different to the rest of the world, at three in the morning anything could be happening. The flowing melody of the violin might fill the rooms or, if the musician was not in such an amenable mood, the screeches would fill the rooms. The occupants might be hard at work trying to solve a case. There could be clinking of glass in the kitchen punctuated by the occasional explosion which was sure to bring the other flatmate running. In this situation any one of three things might happen; there could be a lot of shouting; or a medical kit may be yanked out of its place in the cupboard or there might be an unwanted trip to A & E. Sometimes there would be complete silence but that would only be when the two friends were out pursuing criminals. If the occupants were in then there was never silence at night. Except now there was silence and it worried John deeply.

He lay in bed listening out for a sudden crash or the pained sounds of a bow being scraped along violin strings but it never came and it was unnerving. The army doctor even found himself wondering if Sherlock had snuck out after he had gone to bed. John felt that something was definitely wrong with him if he could not sleep in the silence but would be able to sleep to the sound of the tortured violin. In the end he had to head downstairs to make sure Sherlock was still in and, if he was, he hadn't accidentally killed himself by inhaling some noxious chemical. He even found himself considering that the consulting detective had gone to bed at a conventional time but immediately dismissed the idea. The only time that might happen was after a long case and the longest one that week had lasted a day, much to Sherlock's dismay.

There were no lights on in the sitting room but light from the street flooded in through the gap between the curtains. It was enough for John to see the lanky detective stretched out across the sofa, his eyes open and flickering from side to side. His hands were not in the prayer position beneath his chin like they usually would be if the man was thinking but were simply laid on his chest. This struck John as slightly odd so he took a closer look. _He is still too thin_ the army doctor thought much to his dismay, he had been making an effort to get more food into the man but evidently it was not working. Since Sherlock was not asleep he decided he may as well switch the light on, perhaps that would get a response from the man.

It did not, Sherlock continued with whatever it was he was doing as if he had not noticed anything change. This was entirely possible. But now John could see him better he could see the unmistakable grimace of someone who was not feeling well, Sherlock was in pain but John was wise enough to realise that his friend would not admit it. Instead he went into the kitchen and ran Sherlock a glass of water and got two paracetamol tablets. Placing them on the coffee table next to the sofa he shook the detective's shoulder gently and called his name.

Sherlock looked at him lethargically and somewhat blankly. "Are you feeling alright mate?" John asked, the expression on his friend's face alarming him even more.

"Me? Yeah, fine."

"There's no point lying to me Sherlock, I'm a doctor, not an idiot."

"Debateable," Sherlock muttered under his breath and John shot him his best stern look.

"Take these," John ordered placing the two paracetamol tablets in the detective's hand. "And drink the water." Sherlock glared at John but the army doctor just glared straight back at him. At this time in the morning John could be just as stubborn as Sherlock. In the end Sherlock conceded if not somewhat unhappily. "Good, now, I do think it would be helpful if you went off to bed. With the paracetamol in your system a bit of rest will do you a power of good."

"But John, I'm bored," Sherlock moaned loudly, wincing at the sound of his own voice. _He must have a headache then_ John thought to himself. He could tell Sherlock's protest wasn't wholehearted; it was more of an obligatory protest than anything else.

It didn't take long for the doctor to persuade Sherlock to go to bed and was grateful when he, himself was able to fall into his bed and get some sleep. He woke at about 8:30 and headed down to check on Sherlock who was not in the flat. John presumed the man had been feeling better and had gone off in search of a case. He should have known better. Not an hour later the phone call from Lestrade came through.

"Hi John," the DI greeted, he sounded tired.

"Hi Greg, is everything ok? Sherlock isn't here right now if you were looking for him."

"He isn't there because he's here and I was rather hoping that you'd come and pick him up."  
"Why, what's he done now?" John asked sighing, throwing back the rest of his tea.

"It's not that really, he isn't well John, he's collapsed."

"Crap," the doctor muttered as he grabbed jacket and practically ran down the stairs. "What happened."  
"Well he appeared quite early this morning; he looked a bit tired but nothing out of the ordinary really. He asked if I had any cases for him which was unsurprising and I said no. Obviously this annoyed him so he started ranting about how utterly boring the criminal classes were. Unfortunately he does that a lot but I've learnt to work while he's like that. But then he stopped midsentence so I looked up and I swear John, I've seen corpses which were a healthier colour than he was. I thought he was usually pale but that was something else entirely. He was holding his head at the temple with his finger and thumb and he really looked like he was in a lot of pain. Unfortunately Donovan chose that exact moment to walk in and he collapsed on top of her. I can guarantee he won't hear the end of it."

"Mm, hopefully he's just exhausted or something. I'm in a taxi so I'll be with you soon, bye." John hung up without waiting for a reply and willing the taxi to speed up.

* * *

"…And then he just fell on top of me," John heard the Sergeant proclaiming loudly as he entered the office before he could even see her. "Freak's probably just high again; Lestrade will kill him if he is."

"Shut up Donovan," John snapped as he walked past, not even bothering to give her a cursory glance. "He's clean."

The blinds in Lestrade's office were closed secluding the small room from the rest of the office. John knocked gently and stepped quietly through the door. Sherlock was sitting down with his back against the wall. His skin was pale and pasty and purple smudges marred the skin under his eyes. The man looked exhausted and distinctly ill. The DI was crouched in front of him encouraging him to drink from the glass of water he had placed in the detective's hands.

"Hi," John said softly crouching down next to Lestrade.

"He woke up about five minutes ago, he's got a fever but I don't know how high." John nodded, thankful that he had remembered to grab his doctor's bag just before he dashed out of the flat.

He pulled out a thermometer and put it in Sherlock's mouth, the fact the man didn't protest in any way was a testament to just how rotten he must have been feeling. While it was reading the doctor then took his heart rate, slightly elevated but nothing too dangerous. Sherlock roused slightly when the beeping of the thermometer went off but, upon realising what it was, decided it was not worth the effort so went back into his slightly dazed state. 38.7◦C, probably slightly higher than that considering he had just had some water to drink. Lastly came the stethoscope. Gently, with some help from Lestrade, John removed Sherlock's big coat and his suit jacket. Feeling slightly weird he undid the top few buttons of his friend's shirt. Sherlock flinched as the cold metal met his fevered skin but he simply fell forward, resting his head on John's shoulder as the doctor crouched in front of him, listening. He then placed the metal on Sherlock's back which led to another flinch and Sherlock became slightly more aware. He looked at John confusedly. "What's going on John?" he asked. Confusion did not suit his features at all.

"You fainted because you're an idiot. Come on, we'll get you back to Baker Street." John helped his friend up and had to let him lean heavily on his shoulder as they made their way down to one of the police cars. Lestrade had offered to drive them home. An offer John accepted enthusiastically.

On the way back to the flat the normally unstoppable detective fell asleep and not even Lestrade's shouting at the traffic could rouse him. It was weird seeing the man sleep, and if it had not been illness induced then John may have enjoyed seeing the man acting human. But as it was Sherlock was being _too_ human for John's liking. He shouldn't be sick, he was unstoppable and brilliant. Not weak and dependant on others. But John was damn sure he would help him get up and about as soon as possible.

The journey from Scotland Yard to Baker Street was not too long and soon the doctor found himself having to shake Sherlock to wake him and even then his friend seemed out of it, muttering incomprehensible things. There was something about Moriarty and then he started giggling about John invading Afghanistan. _Of course he can't get ill like a normal person _John thought to himself. _Hardly any symptoms then suddenly he collapses, develops a fever and becomes delusional. _In his mind John knew it would be better to take the man to hospital but was aware of how much Sherlock hated hospitals. So instead he and Greg helped Sherlock up the stairs and they were both aware of the heat that seemed to emanate off the younger man.

Once they'd got Sherlock into his room Lestrade apologised for having to go back to work but promised he'd drop by later to see how things were going. John regretted the fact Greg could not stay, after John Sherlock trusted the DI the most and he was sure he was going to need the help. Unfortunately he knew he had to get on, the fever was the most worrying thing as it appeared it had risen to 40◦C. Any higher and John would be forced to call the ambulance so he set about trying to cool Sherlock down. He got a cold compress from the kitchen before entering Sherlock's bedroom. "Sherlock, we're going to need to get that dress shirt and those trousers off you I'm afraid. You're too warm." There was no response from the detective who seemed to be fascinated by something on the ceiling. So instead John reached forward to undo Sherlock's shirt which seemed to trigger something in Sherlock's mind. "No! I want to keep it on," he protested, suddenly appearing more lucid.

"You're far too warm mate; we need to cool you down."

"I-I feel cold," he protested.

"Sherlock," John started, his voice taking his no-nonsense doctoring tone. "Your temperature is three degrees above normal, we need to lower it."

"You better not come near me!" Sherlock shouted sounding panicked. He crossed his arms protectively over his chest, tucked his knees up to his chest and rolled onto his side away from John. The doctor didn't know what to do other than to observe his friend's unlikely reaction in surprise and concern, hoping against hope that it could be entirely attributed to the fever and to nothing else. The thought was a fine thing.

_Ok, this is going to be a little longer than I anticipated so this title will be extended over two chapters. I hope you enjoyed this instalment. Life is a little hectic at the moment so if it takes me a little longer to update again please do forgive me. I'll get there. Unfortunately real life sometimes has to take precedence over the world of fanfiction. Please, don't forget to review. ;)_


	6. I'm cold (you can't see my scars) part 2

_Yes, I know, this took me a while to get up. I struggled with this chapter and I haven't been able to get it quite to my liking. But, here it is finally. I do hope that it was worth the wait. _

_There will be mentions of self-harm and hints at past drug abuse in this chapter._

**It's nothing to worry about**

**Chapter 5- I'm just cold (I don't want you to see my scars) Part 2**

John spent the rest of the day pottering about the flat, cleaning and looking for other things to occupy his time. Every so often he went to check on his friend in his darkened room but every time he went in Sherlock was still lying in exactly the same position. A few times the doctor attempted to take his temperature again but it was impossible to get it into the detective's mouth, it was as if the man had completely shut down. No matter how many times John called his name, no matter how many times he tapped him on the shoulder or shook him nothing would rouse him. John didn't know if he was ignoring him, unconscious or somehow put himself into a trance of some kind. At one point he had reached for his phone to call Mycroft, to see if there was anything he could do but just as his hand made contact with the phone it buzzed indicating an incoming message.

_He used to do this when he was little and something scared him. There's nothing you can do, he'll come out of it once he is ready. Mycroft Holmes_

So that is what John did, he waited for Sherlock to come out of his trance-like state of his own accord. By early evening the doctor was getting nervous as Sherlock needed fluids. By eleven at night he was seriously concerned, concerned enough in fact that he picked up his mobile to ask Mycroft if he could deliver some IV fluids. The doctor had gotten half way through the text when his phone buzzed. Sighing he opened it, presuming it was Mycroft already knowing John was texting him and why. But it wasn't Mycroft; it was the younger of the two Holmes brothers.

_Tea? SH_

Normally the doctor would have been annoyed at Sherlock being both too lazy to get his own tea and to actually ask for tea properly. But this time he couldn't bring himself to be annoyed, he was just glad Sherlock had emerged from, well, whatever the hell it was. Pushing himself off his seat he made his way into the kitchen where he made the requested tea, poured a glass of orange juice, grabbed the thermometer and made his way into the Consulting Detective's room.

Gently he sat on the edge of the bed and set the two drinks down. "Before you drink anything I want to take your temperature, I need to know if it's changed at all."

"Hasn't," murmured Sherlock into the pillow.

"Well let me be the judge of that will you?" John replied in a tone which seemed light-hearted but firm at the same time. Reluctantly Sherlock obliged and opened his mouth allowing John to pop the thermometer in. A minute later it beeped, and Sherlock was right as always, his temperature was holding steady at 38.7◦C. "Alright, I have tea for you here but I want you to drink this orange juice first." For this John received one of Sherlock's signature death glares. However having lived with the man for a significant length of time the look was lost on him. "Oh, don't look at me like that. You've been unresponsive most of the day and your blood sugar must be pretty low and you're dehydrated anyway. Come on, drink up."

"I don't like orange juice," Sherlock stated irritably.

"And I don't like finding human body parts in the fridge even if they are part of an experiment. If you don't drink the juice there'll be no more body parts." Sherlock looked at John disbelievingly trying to make him back down from his threat. It did not work, John would not be swayed. "Fine," the younger man growled in frustration.

After this little victory Sherlock practically drained the cup of tea and demanded another one. John was reluctant knowing that the hot beverages would not be good for the fever but Sherlock didn't care and this was something John knew he would not back down from. So in the end the doctor obliged but made Sherlock drink some more orange juice beforehand as a compromise. After this Sherlock fell asleep so the doctor made his way up to his own room and also fell straight to sleep.

* * *

At quarter past four in the morning John was woken by a series of noises from downstairs. The Consulting Detective was shouting at someone to leave him alone and this was punctuated by the rhythmic sound of smashing glass. Even though he did not possess Sherlock's keen powers of observation and deduction John knew that this could not mean anything good. With a speed he only possessed when he thought his friend was in danger John jumped out of bed and thundered down the stairs. He could hear Sherlock shouting from the kitchen and the man actually sounded scared, not just scared but downright terrified.

Cautiously, so as not to startle him, John entered the kitchen from the side-door and took in what Sherlock was doing. He was shouting at some sort of monster that only he could see, grabbing whatever he could from the kitchen cabinets and table, and hurling them through into the living room. Just as a conical flask was sent flying his eyes came to rest on John and he opened them wide in fear. For a terrible moment the doctor thought his friend could not recognise him due to fever but this was not the case even though the reality wasn't much better than this. "J-John, what're you doing here?" he stammered, obviously very afraid, his voice taking on an almost child-like quality.

"I came down to see how you were feeling," he replied calmly taking small and slow steps towards the fevered man.

"Y-you need t-to leave, it'll hurt y-you otherwise." His eyes began to dart frantically around the room as if searching desperately for something.

"What'll hurt me?"

"The h-hound will."

This stopped John dead in his tracks. It was bad enough when someone's mind thought up some kind of monster but to throw a real and past horror into the mix was never good, it made reality and the fevered nightmare difficult to distinguish. "I'll be ok Sherlock, I promise," he said trying as hard as he could to sound reassuring.

"N-no, you d-don't understand," Sherlock continued to stutter. It looked as if the man was close to tears and it wrenched John's heart in two.

"Do you trust me?" John asked, taking Sherlock's bony shoulders firmly in his hands and looking directly into Sherlock's face.

"O-of c-course I do." John could feel tremors running up and down Sherlock's body; they were violent and felt almost painful.

"It's gone, I shot it outside. It's dead and I promise you that it is not going to hurt either one of us. Ok?"

The Consulting Detective practically collapsed into John's arms in relief. "Are you sure? W-we thought that we'd g-got it before but we were wrong."  
"I am completely sure. Now, I think that you could probably do with going back to bed. Come on."

But apparently Sherlock was too weak to make it back himself, he tried to stand but his legs simply collapsed from beneath him. John caught him awkwardly and frowned at the heat emanating off the man and the sweat that was pouring off him. Once he had dragged Sherlock back to his room and got him lying down on his bed he grabbed the thermometer off the side and popped it into Sherlock's mouth, the younger man didn't even protest which deeply worried the doctor. He waited anxiously, not quite sure what to do with himself, until the tell-tale beeping broke the silence which had been punctuated only by Sherlock's heavy breathing.

"40.6 degrees," John muttered under his breath. "Crap." He really needed to get Sherlock's temperature down or else it would mean a trip to the hospital. Ideally it would be a hospital trip now but John knew in Sherlock's case he didn't have a mere dislike of hospitals; he had a complete inability to function in a hospital environment. He picked up Sherlock's phone from his cabinet and entered the PIN. He'd felt honoured when Sherlock told him it knowing it wasn't an honour that was handed out to many people, he was probably the only one Sherlock had told.

Urgently he found Lestrade's number in the contact and dialled it. He answered after three rings. "Sherlock, how're you…?"

"It's me Greg." There was a brief pause.

"Oh, hello John. I'm guessing he's not any better then?"  
"He's worse."  
"Ah, shame that. There's a case he'd be interested in."

"Sorry, he really can't. Look, are you still on duty?"  
"Yeah I am mate. Is there something wrong?"

"He's got a temperature of over 40◦C and he's been hallucinating. I could do with a hand but if you can't I'll just have to call an ambulance."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."  
"I thought you were still on duty."  
"I'll claim it's a family emergency; he practically is like family anyway. A bit of an odd member, granted, but family nonetheless."

"Well if you're sure, I need to move him but I'm not going to be able to do that by myself."

The fifteen minutes seemed to drag out into an eternity. For a while Sherlock just lay there, staring at the ceiling. John was worried that he had gone into a sort of lockdown again but he responded when John shook his shoulder to try to rouse him. His skin was chalky white and his eyes were clouded making them look an almost misty blue. Before long he drifted off into what John thought to be sleep. However, after Lestrade arrived and they tried to move him it turned out he was unconscious rather than simply asleep.

The atmosphere was tense, Lestrade had seen Sherlock in a state like this before when he was high and while he was going through withdrawal but all of this was completely new for John. The doctor asked Lestrade to start running a lukewarm bath. John tried to awaken him but to no avail, he was well and truly out of it. The two of them had to work together to carry Sherlock through to the bathroom, if wasn't that he was heavy, far from it, but he was completely limp and the fact that he was tall and had gangly limbs didn't help matters.

Once they had maneuvered him into the bathroom the two men had to take a bit of a breather, it was more tiring than they had expected. For a minute they watched the steady rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. They both found it weird, he was usually such an active man, if he was still his limbs would normally be twitching as if eager to do something or he would be fidgeting in his seat. If he was standing he would be pacing or playing his violin. John knew that even when he was asleep he wasn't still because he had heard numerous times the thump as his friend fell out of bed. But now he was motionless apart from his breathing, his limbs lay uselessly sprawled out on the white tiles, not even his eyes flickered beneath the lids.

Once they had regained their breath they both knelt down either side of Sherlock and Lestrade looked to John for direction. Even though he had helped Sherlock through his drug problem he had not dealt with the medical treatment as such. Mycroft had hired a few nurses to watch him, Lestrade was just there for moral support and to make sure the nurses would make it out alive.

Carefully the two of them lifted Sherlock's bony hips and gently eased his trousers over them. Getting the shirt off was the more difficult bit especially since Sherlock's shirts always seemed to be slightly too small for him. Gently he unbuttoned the shirt, it was a nice material and John could see why Sherlock was so attached to it. They then did what John had seen nurses at hospitals do numerous times; remove one arm from the shirt, roll the patient to the side and tuck it under them, roll patient to the other side and then remove the other arm. When had John started thinking of his friend as a patient? The doctor turned and threw the shirt out of the bathroom door.

When he turned back he saw Lestrade staring at Sherlock, mouth slightly agape. Curiosity piqued John turned to look also and he was sure he could feel bile creeping its way up his throat. Sherlock's arms were filled with scars, each one slightly raised up from the rest of the skin making it look sickening to look at. They were all different sizes and were scattered haphazardly across his arm. They were not in any neat pattern, just random criss-crosses marring his pale skin. But that wasn't the worst of it, there were some new ones too, not a lot but only one would have been too many. These ones were done more neatly than the rest, regimented in a row on his biceps; all of them were exactly the same length. The only difference was the age of them. The oldest would probably have been made a fortnight previously; the most recent could have been made earlier that day. John cringed, he knew Sherlock had been acting weirdly recently but he didn't know… he never suspected… not this, not Sherlock.

He reached out for his friend's arm and tentatively picked it up, turning it impossibly gently so as to see the full extent of the damage. Gingerly he ran a finger across the scars, each one spoke of a life filled with pain and seeing the physical evidence of what his friend had once endured, and was indeed enduring again, hurt him deeply. _No wonder he didn't want me to take his shirt off him earlier._ "Did you know about this?" he whispered to Lestrade, afraid of speaking normally in case his voice caught in his throat."

"I had no idea," Lestrade replied. He couldn't take his eyes off the damage, this shouldn't have happened to him, not to Sherlock.

It was John which broke the pained silence; they'd taken the shirt off him for a reason. They might as well carry on with what they were doing. "Let's get him in the bath then," John said quietly, he was no longer whispering but talking normally just seemed disrespectful in a way. Lestrade nodded and took Sherlock's feet whilst John hooked his arms under his armpits.

Getting him into the bath was more difficult than either of them had anticipated. Once he was in he kept on slipping down until his mouth was dangerously near the water and Lestrade pulled him back up. After this happened a few times John sighed, took off his shoes and jumper, and clambered into the bath behind Sherlock. The doctor sat behind him and wrapped his arms under his armpits and around his chest. He clung to his unconscious best friend as if, somehow, if he squeezed him enough, all of his pain would go away. Of course he knew it wouldn't but he had to do something. Never before had he felt so unable to help.

_Ok, so that's that title done. There will probably be two more chapters, possibly three depending on how I feel. There is just so much angst and not enough words to describe it. I hope you guys enjoyed it, do let me know through a review! :D_


	7. I'm better (I've never been this bad)

_I am so sorry this took me so long to update. I had exams and then I lost motivation for this story and then when I did get around to writing it again I was never happy with it so kept on rewriting bits. Right now its at a stage where I don't absolutely hate it so I'm going to post it so I don't freak out about it again and rewrite all of it. I hope it was worth the wait. This is the penultimate chapter so I will try and get the last one up relatively quickly. Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me so far, I love you all. And I'm going to ask you all very nicely to drop a review. By now you've probably got the general idea of how much I love receive reviews! :D_

**It's nothing to worry about**

**Chapter 6- I'm better, I promise (I've never been this bad)**

John frowned as Sherlock absentmindedly scratched at the crook of his elbow. The detective was bored and, as per usual, had been pretty vocal about it until John left to work at the surgery. Well, he probably carried on shouting for a few hours until he either realised John had left or, and more likely, got bored of shouting. Now John stood in the doorway watching his oblivious friend as he obviously was craving drugs. Even though John was not impressed with the cutting he couldn't help but feel a swell of pride that the detective had not turned to his other dangerous vice.

The doctor really was dreading that conversation, the one he really needed to have but was desperately trying to avoid. At first he told himself that as soon as Sherlock's temperature was down he would talk to him. Retrospectively it would have been best if John had gone through with that plan, at least then the detective would be too weak to run of anywhere whilst John was trying to speak to him. Then John told himself that as soon as Sherlock had recovered completely they'd talk. However it was a fortnight since Sherlock started on cases again and John was yet to speak to him.

"John, this is your flat too. You are allowed to come in instead of spending the night half in and half out." The sound of his friend's baritone voice caused John to jump; Sherlock wasn't even looking at him. He would never get used to Sherlock's seemingly psychic capabilities.

"Of course," John mumbled as he entered the room before automatically making his way through to the kitchen. "Fancy a cuppa?" To this Sherlock make a non-committal grunt which John took as a yes. Having lived with the man for a few years he'd learnt to interpret the unintelligible noises made by the detective. He made the tea in silence; silence was something common to 221b. It was strange really, there would either be no noise at all or there would be so much it was impossible to even think (this normally occurred when there was a case on). The quiet wasn't awkward though and that was the beauty of their relationship. They didn't need to fill each moment with inane chatter; John always felt a relationship like that would only last for as long as there was something to talk about. But a relationship where you were comfortable to simply be in someone else's presence, that was one which would last.

The doctor set the teas down on the table and grabbed the newspaper off Sherlock's cluttered desk. Just as he collapsed into his chair he saw a hint of red on Sherlock's sleeve. It was bright so it was either from a fresh wound or a reopened one. Either way John knew he was going to have to talk to Sherlock then. "Sherlock?" There was no reply; whatever the man was doing in his mind must have been interesting. "Sherlock!" John called a little louder rousing his friend from whatever it was he was doing.

"What?" the detective snapped. "I'm busy."

"Your tea's ready."

"Hmm? Thanks." John took a deep breath as Sherlock reached out for the tea, the stain on his sleeve was larger than the doctor had anticipated. Sherlock was being careless with his secret tonight and this worried John almost as much as the blood did.

"Hang on," he said before Sherlock could raise his mug to his lips. "Let me check your arms, I want to make sure everything is healing ok and that nothing is infected."

"What on earth are you talking about John?" Sherlock asked with his normal mask of disinterested pasted onto his face though John was sure he saw a flash of something akin to panic in his friend's eyes. The doctor took another deep breath; there was no going back now. Everything in him screamed to be gentle but Sherlock would not appreciate it if he beat around the bush.

"I know about the cutting Sherlock. When you were ill and had that high fever I saw the cuts and the scars. There's no point in denying it because I've seen. So please let me help you, even if it is only physically."

The detective looked at him with his mysterious eyes. Normally they were cold and calculating but now they just looked desperate, looking for any sign that John was bluffing. When all he found was sincerity in John's face he slammed the mug of tea down on the coffee table causing it to slosh out over his pale skin. The doctor winced knowing how hot the beverage still was but that was soon forgotten when he looked at his friend's face as he stood up. He looked so scared, his eyes were wide and flittering about desperately. His mouth was held slightly open in an expression of shock and he was beginning to breathe heavily, almost in panic. Slowly John stood up from his seat, arms outstretched, palms facing up to make himself as unthreatening as possible.

"It's ok, I'm not angry and I'm not upset, I just want to help you." The doctor slowly approached his frightened friend who watched him warily as he approached. He stood his ground until John was in arm's reach at which point he couldn't stay still any longer. He jumped back, made eye contact with John for a brief moment and then dashed into his room, door slamming behind him as he left. John sighed and rubbed his face in frustration; that had not been what he expected. Shouting, that's what he anticipated with maybe Sherlock disappearing into his room afterwards but a terrified detective; that was not what he was prepared for. As such he felt totally unequipped to deal with the situation. There was Mycroft but he didn't want to call him.

After a few minutes of standing on the spot contemplating what he should do John made his way to Sherlock's room, cup of tea in hand, and he knocked tentatively on his best friend's door. There was no reply; not that he had really been expecting one. "Sherlock, I'm coming in so if you're not decent now would be the time to tell me." Once again he was met with silence so John presumed that he had the all clear. Gently, so as not to scare the obviously spooked man, John twisted the door handle and silently the door swung open. Sherlock's room was dimly lit and sparsely decorated. Sitting on the bed, with arms encircling his knees which were drawn up under his chin, sat Sherlock. He was staring off into the distance as if he were unaware of John's presence. However John was pretty sure Sherlock did know he was in the room, he always seemed to notice when John entered a room but not usually when he left, curious.

Sherlock was aware that John had entered his room but it was like he was stuck in his mind, reliving a memory with no way to escape. He could smell the bitter scent of alcohol on his father's breath as he screamed in his face. Dirty, thick fingernails biting into his frail flesh as his father gripped his biceps and shook him repeatedly and his head bashed against the wall each time. He was becoming disorientated and woozy. In the background he could hear John's voice calling him but he couldn't escape. His Father's harsh words were keeping him trapped in the nightmare of a memory_. "Nobody can know about this, about this cutting. Urgh, you make me ashamed to be my son. Why can't you be more like Mycroft? He wouldn't do something so foolish or, or emotional. I tried to raise you correctly; something must have gone wrong somewhere. You'll pay for this my boy, you mark my words."_ Sherlock could feel himself being dragged upstairs and thrown into a dark cupboard, yet because of the number of times his head had been hit off the wall he was unable to try and defend himself, not that it would have helped. But now he was alone, in the dark and…

Suddenly he saw John crouched in front of him. Good, kind hearted Dr John Hamish Watson. He was always there, why was he always so kind? Sherlock looked up at his friend, his best friend, his only friend. Sherlock's eyes were surprisingly dry considering all he wanted to do was breakdown but John could see the pain which was emanating from his eyes. Had it been anyone else he would have taken them into an embrace but this was Sherlock, who knew if that would help or make things infinitely worse. In the end he sat on the bed next to his friend and put an arm on his shoulder. The detective moved instinctively into the touch so John wrapped his arm round Sherlock's bony shoulders and smiled as Sherlock lay his head on John's shoulder. The doctor could feel every movement caused by his friend's shuddering breathing and, in what was almost a paternal action, drew him closer to his body in a need to protect the younger man.

The two friends sat there in silence for a long time, Sherlock trying to match his breathing to John's in an attempt to keep calm and John listened to every hitch in Sherlock's breathing as he resisted the urge to cry. At some point John's back started causing him grief as he was partially supporting Sherlock's weight as well as his own. So he lay Sherlock down on the bed, being sure to keep the man close in case he started to panic, and lay beside him. The instant John was horizontal Sherlock curled up towards his body, burying his face in the doctor's woollen jumper at his shoulder before taking a deep breath of satisfaction. The older man smiled as he began to run his fingers absentmindedly through the other man's curls, perhaps Sherlock would let him help, perhaps everything would be alright in the end.

* * *

The next morning the light broke through the curtains causing John to wake. It took a few moments for him to remember what had happened but when he did remember he panicked; Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He sat up quickly causing him to become dizzy and he grabbed the mattress desperately to remain upright. It was whilst he was trying to regain balance that he heard the shower running and he breathed a sigh of relief. Sherlock never took long in the shower so John went to make a cup of tea and it was at perfect drinking temperature when Sherlock emerged from the bathroom. His cheeks were tinged slightly red making him look more alive than he had recently. However this look was not aided by his frankly gaunt looking cheeks and the way his dressing gown hung off him.

The detective made a bee-line for the tea and nodded his thanks to John before plonking himself down at the table. The doctor turned and put some toast in the toaster, he was going to make his friend eat even if it killed him. Whilst that was on John sat down opposite Sherlock and lowered the newspaper that Sherlock had appeared to magic out of nowhere and started to read. The detective looked at John curiously but he didn't get angry at being interrupted, normally he'd get angry. "Sherlock, look, I want to talk to you about last night."

"Ah."

"Yes, well, I'm not going to try to force you to talk about how you feel, I know that is difficult for you. I would like to encourage you to talk to someone though. That could be me if you want, it could be Lestrade or Mycroft…" At this Sherlock let out a loud laugh and John smiled sadly. "You can talk to a professional if you want. Quite frankly I don't care who you talk to, and I can't make you talk to anyone. But as your friend and as the only doctor you ever bother to listen to and even that is rarely at best, I really hope you do. Even you should realise that the cutting and not eating can't carry on."

Sherlock looked John straight in the eye and gave him the most sincere look he could muster. "I know how this looks John but I assure you I am recovered from what I was like as a teenager…"

"Sherlock!"

"No, let me finish. Sometimes I have relapses, I will admit this is one of them, but mostly I have recovered. I am better and I am well on the way to recovering from this relapse. So please refrain from trying to make me talk about feelings which I do not have to you or some random stranger. It is bound to do more harm than good." At this the sound of toast popping out of the toaster was heard from the kitchen. "Ah, were you making toast John? I am absolutely famished." _Sure_ thought John to himself. He knew Sherlock was just trying to distract him, he knew everything Sherlock just told him was a lie and he knew that Sherlock knew it was a lie too. However any opportunity to get Sherlock to eat could not be passed off so John stood up. He's think of a better way of broaching the topic. And next time, he'd make sure Sherlock was being honest with him.


	8. I'm ok (I just want to die) part 1

_Hey guys, it's me again. I know it's been ages since I updated. I really am sorry about that. Do you remember that one time where I said this would be the last chapter? I remember saying that. Anyway, the long and the short of it is I got a request which I really liked so no last chapter for you just yet. Hope you don't mind. _

_I found this chapter really difficult to write actually, it was by far the hardest to write by far. I think it's because I got rid of Sherlock's support base (you'll see what I mean when you read it). I feel kind of bad but I will rectify the situation in the next chapter. I found the characterisation in this really difficult too so I hope it is ok. All in all I am pretty nervous about posting this chapter. I really hope that this was worth the wait. And, don't forget to review. :D _

**It's nothing to worry about**

**Chapter 7- Part 1 **

**I'm ok (I just want to die)**

_Three months later_

John stumbled up the stairs with two heavy bags of shopping in each hand and barged loudly in through the door of 221b, dropping the shopping onto the kitchen floor. He gave a sigh of relief, massaging the dents that the bags had left on his hands. Turning around he saw Sherlock, in his new favourite position, which was lying on his back on the floor, staring at the ceiling, with his legs together and arms spread wide. His dressing gown was spread out beneath him making it look like he was wearing a cape. "I'm back," John commented stepping over his friend heading to the window, he'd made it back just in time, rain had just begun to pour from the rapidly darkening sky.

When he turned around he saw Sherlock had stopped staring at the ceiling and had, instead, decided that John was a much more worthy recipient of his scrutiny. Although to John it didn't look like Sherlock was looking at him, it was more like he was simply looking in his general direction. It had been three months since Sherlock's cutting had come to light and he did seem much better now. On the odd occasion John tried to bring it up in conversation, desperate that Sherlock should talk about so hopefully they could avoid another relapse. But Sherlock flat-out refused to talk about it. He didn't get angry which John found quite peculiar, he just simply didn't talk. So instead John had to be content with watching Sherlock closely, looking for any indication that he'd started his nasty habit again. But he found no sign or symptom, Sherlock was back to his normal self, which was far from what anybody else would describe as normal. Perhaps the detective was better, it was hard to tell, Sherlock was fantastic at hiding something if he so desired to. John had never seen anyone switch a persona as quickly as Sherlock could whilst dealing with witnesses when he was on a case.

"Bored!" The familiar cry snapped John out of his reverie.

"Well do something then," John replied stepping back over his friend; Sherlock's eyes followed him to the kitchen.

"There is nothing to do," Sherlock groaned and then sighed dramatically. "Do you want a game of Cluedo?"  
"Ah, no," John replied hastily determined to nip that idea in the bud. "Anyway, I've got a date soon." He began opening cupboards to put the shopping away.

"Dull."

"Yes, well, not all of us thrive on isolating ourselves from the rest of the world. Why don't you do an experiment, but preferably one which doesn't set fire to our kitchen, or make much of a mess come to think of it?" At this Sherlock sat straight up and looked at John enthusiastically.

"Do you have an idea for an experiment?" His voice had a hint of excitement in it and his eyes had lit up causing John to feel just the tiniest pang of guilt.

"No, I just assumed you'd have a few thought up in that great brain of yours." At this Sherlock flopped back onto the floor with a thump causing John to wince; that was sure to bruise.

"Don't be such an idiot John, if there was anything remotely interesting to do I would have done it or still be doing it." The older man simply grunted in reply, unwilling to continue the conversation so instead kept on going with unpacking the shopping. The silence continued for another few minutes before Sherlock broke it once again. "John!" he shouted despite being in the next room whilst the door was left open.

"What?" John asked irritably, looking up to meet the detective's eyes from where he was sprawled on the floor.

"I'm thirsty."

"Well got yourself a damn drink then." At this Sherlock huffed and returned his gaze to the ceiling.

As soon as he was done packing up the shopping John sighed, he really didn't want to make Sherlock a cup of tea but he wanted one. If he made himself a cup then he knew he would end up making one for Sherlock, he wouldn't be able to help himself. Eventually he resigned himself to the inevitable and switched the kettle on. Immediately Sherlock appeared at the doorway to the kitchen and gave John a faint smile. "Thank you." John muttered something about Sherlock being a nuisance and then instantly regretted it when he saw a brief look of hurt flash across Sherlock's face.

"Don't worry John, I-I'll make it." The change in his demeanour was astonishing and worrying at the same time.

"No, its ok, I'm doing it now. Thanks for the offer though," John replied warily, watching Sherlock's facial expressions very carefully.

Something was up with Sherlock, John knew. Whilst John was waiting for the kettle to boil he put the teabags in the cups but Sherlock couldn't keep still. The doctor had expected him to go and lie back down on the floor but he didn't, he was fidgeting on the spot, running pale fingers through his dark curls. "Sherlock, go and sit down, I'll bring you your tea in a minute." The detective practically ran out of the room, there was definitely something wrong. It could be that the man was just bored but this did seem different somehow. He seemed agitated in a way and an agitated Sherlock was never a good thing, usually when he was bored he'd be manic or completely unresponsive.

A few minutes later John emerged from the kitchen with a cup of tea in each hand. Sherlock was perched on the sofa, crouching on the edge, with his hands pressed together as if he were praying. The doctor placed the detective's cup of tea on the table in front of him before collapsing into his chair with his own cup. Quickly he glanced at the clock; he had thirty minutes before his date would be arriving. It crossed his mind that perhaps he should stay in with Sherlock but he quickly dismissed the idea. There had been far too many dates cancelled on account of Sherlock for one reason or another.

He took a sip of his tea, relishing in the bitter yet familiar taste of it. "Are you alright Sherlock?" John asked; his concern had grown to a point where he could no longer keep quiet. In response Sherlock grunted, looked up and saw the tea, then nearly fell from his perch when he reached for it. _'That's odd,'_ John thought. _'He's usually so steady.' _He tried again. "Sherlock, listen, I'm worried about you." This seemed to get the detective's attention.

"Don't worry about me, I'm fine." He too took a drink from his cup, less bitter than John's due to the sugar, but it felt familiar and safe, just like John did.

"You seem agitated." A thought suddenly popped into the doctor's head and he frowned in concern. "Sherlock, if you feel like you're relapsing, into any of your old habits…" John was trying to be tactful but he didn't think it was working, Sherlock was sitting there looking at him curiously and it was unnerving. "You need to tell me if you're going to do something which will cause you harm, I'll be able to help you."

"I am fine, I'm absolutely fine."

John nodded at Sherlock's attempt to reassure him. The doctor in him was telling him that something was still amiss here; he just couldn't put his finger on it, but he didn't have time to ponder such things, he had a date to get ready for. And Sherlock just seemed in the mood where he wouldn't move if he didn't have to, so even if he wanted to there was very little chance he would do something stupid.

With that made up in his mind John downed the rest of his tea and stood up. "What're you doing?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"I'm grabbing a shower before I go out?"

"You're going out?"

"Yes Sherlock, I've got a date. I told you."

"Hmm, must have deleted it."

"Of course you did," John muttered irritably before heading off for his shower.

Twenty-five minutes later the doorbell rang and Sherlock made no move to answer it. It rang a couple more times before John shouted from the bathroom. "Sherlock, will you get that? Mrs Hudson's out at the moment." At this the detective muttered in annoyance, considered ignoring John but then decided he'd be nice just this once and answer it. Slowly he trudged down the stairs and swung the door open to reveal a rather scantily dressed thirty-four year old woman. He scrutinised her carefully before stepping aside and letting her in. '_Seeing two other men' _Sherlock thought to himself as he felt rage welling up within him. From the way she was looking at him it was quite obvious she wouldn't mind adding yet another man onto that ever-growing list. "Where's John?" she asked in a sickly sweet voice which had probably been perfected over the years to seduce men.

"John's still getting ready," he replied turning around to head back up the stairs, not wanting to spend any more time with the woman than he absolutely had to. "He'll be down in a minute." But instead of staying put like he'd hoped she would she followed him up the seventeen steps. He fell back onto his seat, picked up his violin and began plucking at the strings gently. He was making a point of ignoring her. John was far too good for her, he was too kind hearted and she had quite obviously tricked him, somehow, into thinking she was the same.

John's date, whatever her name was, sat awkwardly down on John's seat and Sherlock glared at her for doing so. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes; this was fine as far as Sherlock was concerned, he doubted that she had anything of real value to say. As soon as John emerged from the bathroom, with damp hair and clad in cream coloured woollen jumper and a new pair of jeans, she jumped up off the seat and darted across to him, eager to get away from the awkward silence which had been lingering in the room ever since she had arrived. The doctor smiled at her and pecked her on the cheek in a way of greeting. "Are you ready to go?" he asked.

"Where are we going?" she questioned curiously in the same voice as she had greeted Sherlock at the door.

"There's a lovely little Turkish restaurant about ten minutes cab ride from here. It's a very interesting little place. Sound good?" She nodded enthusiastically before leaning in and kissing John. Sherlock could not hide his disgust.

He sighed dramatically causing both John's and Julie's attention to be drawn to him; both of them were glaring. "What? What is it Sherlock?" John demanded, slightly more harshly than he'd intended. Sherlock paused, considering what he should say but then ploughed on right ahead, not wanting John to get hurt by this girl.

"She's already seeing two other men John and she'll sleep with just about anyone that looks at her. You shouldn't get involved with her." Julie looked at him in shock and John looked at him in anger. Quietly he leaned in and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

As soon as the door was shut John was by Sherlock's side, his face contorted in rage. "What the hell was that Sherlock?" he hissed, trying desperately to keep his voice down.

"I was merely informing you…"

"No, shut up. I know you don't like the fact that I have a life outside of you but I do so I would appreciate it if you didn't try and sabotage it. She is a perfectly nice girl. Just because you're too cold to get intimately close with anyone doesn't mean that I have to be stuck with the same curse as you. And don't think I didn't notice how silent it was out here when I first came out of the bathroom or how quickly she came over to me. You could have at least pretended you're normal and tried to make conversation with her. For goodness sake Sherlock, what's wrong with you? Is it any wonder Donovan and Anderson say all those things about you and call you a freak when you will quite happily behave like this?" John was angry, John was very angry. In fact he was so angry he didn't pick up on the look of fear and panic which was rapidly spreading across Sherlock's normally pale and impassive features. He didn't notice the younger man move his arm across his body protectively or how he clenched his fists so hard blood began to well up from his palms beneath his finger nails.

"John, I-"

"No!" John shouted this time, literally shaking with rage. "I don't want to hear it. You shouldn't say things like that about people especially if I'm about to go out on a date with them. I know Julie, she's friends with Mike Stamford and I see her at the pub when I go with him. She is lovely and would _never_ do anything like what you accused her of. That is a disgraceful thing to make up about someone. Sometimes I don't know why I bother with you because right now I'm not entirely sure you're worth the effort." With that John stormed out, calming down when he saw Julie. Guilt was starting to well up inside him already but he wouldn't allow himself to go back and apologise, he had a date to go on.

* * *

Sherlock stood, staring at the door in shock. He'd been a witness to John's rages before, of course he had. But they'd never been anything like that, not when they were directed at him. The detective darted across to the window to see John and Julie clambering into the back of the cab. Longingly he put his hands against the glass as the taxi sped off, taking John away. Taking his best friend away. Sherlock felt like crying, he really thought John liked him. He'd tried to stop cutting for John, he was the one thing in the world that made him think it was worth stopping. But when he did cut he hid it, made sure the cuts were on his hips or ribs where nobody would be likely to see because he didn't want to cause John any worry. But it was all for nothing because obviously John didn't like him. He'd driven John away just like he drove away everyone else who had ever tried to care about him.

_You are nothing._

The voice of Sherlock's father echoed through his mind causing him to raise his shaking hands to his head and pull mercilessly at his curls. His eyes were screwed up in pain and distress and he was vaguely aware that he was letting out load moaning noises. He didn't care though. John wasn't coming back.

_Nobody could ever love you, you're pathetic Sherlock. _

He was aware of himself walking into the kitchen and throwing the table over in anger and in hurt, glass tubes and other delicate equipment smashing into pieces so that they were no longer recognisable. Next he moved to the cabinets sweeping his arm across and knocking everything off, throwing each mug at the wall and he was powerless to stop himself. But he didn't care, because John was not coming back.

_I can't believe that one of my offspring can be so abnormal, such a freak._

The normally calm and collected detective punched the wall violently, the sharp pain bringing him back to reality abruptly. He looked at the destruction around him but he couldn't bring himself to care because John was not coming back.

Silently Sherlock knelt to the ground and picked up a shard of glass before heading over to the sofa. When he had sat down he removed his dressing gown and t-shirt, very slowly and methodically. He seemed usually calm despite being surrounded by such destruction, both physically and emotionally. Curling his knees up to his chest he began at his right shoulder as his right hand hurt too much to use. He cut slowly, revelling in the sharp pain, the bite of the glass which felt different to when he used a knife, fascinating. He was enthralled by the way the glass stained red with his blood. He was beginning to feel calmer already although the grief still overwhelmed his heart.

* * *

Lestrade frowned at his phone. He'd texted Sherlock with a case ten minutes ago, a triple homicide which was sure to interest him, yet there had been no response. Even after a phone call there was no response. There was always a response. Perhaps he wasn't replying because it was Dimmock's case, Dimmock and Sherlock seemed to have a kind of understanding between each other but it was obvious they did not like each other. He frowned at his phone again, there was something not right here. The DI couldn't rid himself of the niggling feeling that something was terribly wrong. In the end he groaned, stood up, and grabbed his coat. He could always go under the pretence that he was delivering the message about the triple homicide personally.

* * *

The date between John and Julie was going well, the doctor was hopeful that he'd get an invitation back to her house afterwards. The choice of the restaurant had evidently been a great choice. The food was interesting, the lighting was warm and romantic, the decorations tasteful and the atmosphere was happy and friendly. However he could not throw off the guilt which threatened to consume him if he paid it any attention over how he had spoken to Sherlock earlier. He wasn't sure if he didn't believe what he said about Julie or simply didn't want to. History would suggest Sherlock was right but Julie did seem nice, she wouldn't do something like that, would she? John wasn't as sure now as he had been when he'd been angry, and he wasn't sure who he hated most for that, Julie, Sherlock or himself.

Eventually there was a lull in the conversation after they had ordered their puddings which John took advantage of. "Would you mind if I stepped outside to call Sherlock? I just want to make sure he's alright." Julie frowned at this and looked at him critically.

"What do you see in him?" she asked, taking a sip of her red wine but never looking away from John.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice taking on a slightly defensive edge. If she noticed she didn't comment on it.

"I mean I've only met him briefly but from what I can tell he's obnoxious, cruel and egotistical. What is it you see in him?" John put down his own wine and frowned, this was not what he wanted to be talking about. Despite what he had said to Sherlock earlier he did actually care about him even if he did infuriate the doctor at times. And if Julie was planning on sitting there and insulting him John knew he would defend him and the night would not finish as he had hoped.

"Sherlock, well he's brilliant. I know how he comes across and I know at times all you want to do is punch him but he's a good man deep down. He will do anything to protect those he cares about."

"No John, I saw him. That man was not a good man. That man was self-centred and jealous. If I were you I would get out of there whilst you still can." At this comment John outright glared at her.

"Yes, he has some social issues, I am not denying that. He should try and deal with things with more tact and be more subtle about some things. But the man I live with is my best friend and he is the best man that I have ever known. If you can't cope with that then I think we're done here."

Julie took a long hard look at John before sniggering. "I can't believe it," she said chuckling away to herself. "You have the hots for him don't you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know, you want him. You're about as straight as a roundabout aren't you?" At this comment John gave up all pretences of trying to be civil with her. He opened his mouth knowing full well that he'd probably regret what he was about to say but he didn't care enough to stop himself.

* * *

Lestrade pulled up in his car outside of Baker Street. The light was on in the living room but he couldn't see any silhouettes moving in the window. Someone had to be in. The DI clambered out of the car and popped his back; he was getting far too old to be running around after Sherlock. When he rang the doorbell there was no reply, both John and Mrs Hudson must be out then, curious. He tried once more before he looked where the spare key was hidden. It was slightly orange from rust but it worked perfectly well. After flicking on the light switch he headed up the stairs and swung the door open. He was stopped dead his tracks by the scene before him. "Oh Sherlock," the older man muttered sadly.


	9. I'm ok (I just want to die) part 2

_This took longer than I expected it to take I will admit. It took me a couple of weeks to write this chapter and I was really not happy with it so I wrote it again… in a night. But I am much happier with it now. If I follow my plan this time the next chapter will be the last chapter. I hope you enjoy, don't forget to review!_

**It's nothing to worry about**

**Chapter 7- Part 2**

**I'm ok (I just want to die)**

What had simply been rain earlier had transformed into a torrential downpour as John exited the restaurant with one stinging cheek from where he'd been slapped. He wrapped his rain coat more tightly around his body to try and prevent the driving rain from seeping through his clothes; it was already doing a good enough job of making his hair sodden. Bright headlights emerged from around the corner, lighting up the road as the heavy water droplets pounded relentlessly on the ground causing yet more water to spray up the way.

John waved his hand out, hoping that he was waving down a taxi instead of a complete stranger, but he was rapidly becoming more soaked and all he wanted to do was get dry and make sure Sherlock was ok. At the thought of Sherlock guilt gnawed mercilessly at his gut threatening to make him lose the meal he'd just eaten, but he swallowed and forced bitter bile which was creeping up his throat back into his stomach.

As it happened it was not a taxi which John had managed to wave down but instead a police squad car, containing none other than DI Lestrade. Confused, John opened the door and clambered into the front, sighing in relief as the blast of hot air hit him in the face. "How did you know I was here and what's wrong?" John demanded as he reached over and plugged himself in. A distant rumble of thunder echoed in the distance and the pouring rain appeared to get impossibly heavier. Lestrade ran a hand through his silver hair, an action that worried John, as the DI was obviously on edge about something or other. And since he'd come to pick John up himself that something or other obviously involved Sherlock. "It's Sherlock," Lestrade admitted, concern filling his voice. Damn. "He wasn't answering his phone so I went to check on him and to tell him about a case. I went into the flat and, damn it John, it was a mess. And Sherlock, he was in a corner, and well there was blood everywhere. He didn't even see me at first; he was too busy with watching the blood on his arm. When he did eventually see me he looked absolutely petrified and he ran past me and pushed me over. By the time I'd gotten down the stairs he'd disappeared so I called Mycroft who said to get you from here that he'd try and find Sherlock on CCTV. This is now an official police search now too."

John nodded, all of the information he'd just been fed swirling around in his brain. Suddenly the failed date he'd just been on, the weather and the lingering stinging sensation on his cheek were forgotten. Sherlock had hurt himself after John had shouted at him and left. He was bleeding and lost and it was all John's fault, what if he died? What if the cuts got infected when he was out? Sherlock, his best friend, was alone and hurting, most likely soaked to the skin, and he was bleeding and it was all John's fault. The doctor rubbed his face viciously with both hands and then shook his head ferociously to clear his thoughts, he needed to help Sherlock and to do that he had to think clearly.

Suddenly his phone vibrated in his pocket causing John to jump. He pulled it out, it was Mycroft. "Hello," he answered, looking at Lestrade who obviously seemed to understand who it was on the other end.

"Hello Dr Watson, has the DI picked you up?"

"Um, yeah, I just got in the car."

"Good." John hated how calm and collected the man sounded, as if his brother wasn't in any danger at all. His sickly sweet voice did nothing but make John boil in rage as the British Government seemed un-phased by the current situation when the doctor was falling apart. "We lost Sherlock on the CCTV after a few streets but tell Lestrade that he seemed to be heading towards his old flat." John was about to reply when a dull tone sounded indicating Mycroft had hung up. The doctor passed on the message as he slipped his phone back into his pocket, a look of alarm flashed across Lestrade's face before they sped off through the rain.

* * *

The pouring rain stung Sherlock's face as he ran down the road, his t-shirt and trousers were instantly soaked and the thin material clung desperately to the detective's skinny frame. His arm was throbbing from where he'd butchered his arm and he felt a little dizzy from the blood loss. As he ran down the streets his bare feet began to burn from where small stones from the tarmac dug into his feet as they tried to find purchase on the wet ground and where small shards of glass from broken bottles embedded themselves in his feet. But none of this mattered; he simply had to get away, away from John and away from Lestrade. If left the people he cared about he would no longer be able to hurt them. He had no idea where he was heading, he just had to leave.

After about 15 minutes of running he stopped outside a building to catch his breath. The detective's feet were a mess, had it not been for the weather they would have been covered in a thin layer of blood. A mass of damp curls hung limply from his head having become saturated with water and a constant stream of water flowed down his face, mixed with the tears he couldn't tell he was crying. Subconsciously he wrapped the silk dressing gown he had left the flat in closer to his person, trying to regain some semblance of warmth back into his chilled body. Shivers flowed through him uncontrollably. If John was there John would make it all better, he'd get him a towel and dry clothes and make him have a hot shower or bath. After that he'd force a thermometer into the detective's mouth and make him keep it in by glaring at him whenever he made a motion to remove it. After it'd beeped the doctor would look at the reading and either tut in disapproval or grunt in acceptance. Regardless of the reading he'd go and make tea whilst Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa and, depending on the thermometer reading, a pile of warm blankets would be dumped on top of him and the smell of 221b would surround him making him feel safe and cared for, a feeling he didn't even recognise before John came along.

But the smell which surrounded him was not safe; it was acrid, a foul concoction containing mostly vomit and alcohol. He wasn't in 221b, somehow he found himself standing in front his old block of flats, in front of the door he used to go through to visit his dealer, perhaps the disgusting man still lived there. But most importantly of all, John was not there plying him with warm clothes, tea and blankets. He was soaked in the cold rain, all alone, in drenched clothes. He was pathetic. John was not coming, John hated him and Sherlock didn't even blame him. Without the doctor the world just didn't seem as good. All he wanted to do was walk through that door and feel the marginally warmer air on his face, and get something which would make him forget. But for some reason he couldn't, he simply stood there soaked to the skin, he was the epitome of misery. Slowly he raised thin, spindly fingers to the door and touched it, he could remember each time he walked through that door and none of them were good memories. The only good memories he had been made since he moved into 221b and he could never go back. The detective became aware of the tears which were flowing down his face as he let out a guttural sob as he slipped onto the ground and curled into a foetal position just hoping that the rain and the chill would take him before anybody found him. He simply didn't have the motivation to do anything no matter how much he wanted to.

* * *

The two men sped along the streets of London in silence; the streets were almost completely deserted with only the occasional silhouette dashing towards home to escape the downpour. Water splashed up the side of the car as the street and the sky ahead of them lit up in a brilliant light, a few seconds later an almighty clap of thunder resounded around them. "Why would Sherlock be going back to where he used to live?" John asked unexpectedly, he'd been wondering it since Mycroft had called and it just slipped out. Lestrade sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger whilst keeping one hand firmly on the steering wheel.

"My guess is because that's where his dealer used to live, I never could pin anything on the guy, but I always knew that was where Sherlock was getting it all from. We're almost there, only another couple of minutes. I really hope he is there or else I haven't a clue where he'd go." The rest of the journey was spent in complete silence as John pondered what Lestrade had said. Guilt tore away at him because he knew he'd driven Sherlock to this, he hoped desperately that Sherlock had not turned back to drugs but he decided there and then he wouldn't get angry at the man if he had because he had driven him to it.

As much as he didn't want Sherlock to have returned to his dealer the DI certainly did have a point. If Sherlock wasn't there they wouldn't have any idea where he was. And if they found that great man in the morning having drowned in a puddle or choked on his own vomit John wasn't sure he'd be able to live with the guilt.

After what felt like more than an eternity they eventually pulled up in front of a decrepit old building which looked like it belonged 100 years in the past and even then it should have been condemned. Most of the windows were either smashed or boarded up and most of the paint had peeled off the side of the building leaving in its place cold hard stone. The place simply screamed _health-hazard_ to the doctor. "Did Sherlock seriously live here?" John demanded, disturbed at the thought.

"Yes," replied Lestrade. The two men hurriedly and simultaneously removed their seatbelts and jumped out of the car, they didn't even notice the rain pounding into their bodies in their haste.

The two of them dashed into the courtyard and both saw the same thing at the same time. A heap, on the ground in front of one of the doors, a wave of both relief and horror washed over the two of them. John dashed ahead of Lestrade and knelt down next to the heap of sodden and sobbing detective. "Hey Sherlock," John said gently, rolling the detective over so his nose and mouth were no longer perilously close to the pool of water beneath him. The detective's eyes searched desperately above him before they finally rested on John's face.

"John?" he rasped raising bony fingers towards the doctor's face. John caught the searching fingers with his hand and held them tight wincing at how cold they were, they really needed to get the man warmed up.

"Yeah, it's me Sherlock, I'm here. I've come to help you. Do you reckon you can sit up?" John really didn't want to rush him but his shivers were enough to even make John wince.

Instead of getting up as John had hoped Sherlock started rambling. "I'm s-sorry J-John."

"It's ok Sherlock, there's nothing to apologise for."

"I'm sorry; I'm s-so sorry. P-please… I can't… I d-don't… help." And with that the great man broke down into heart wrenching sobs which wracked his whole body painfully. He rolled back onto his side, curling back in on himself, and John looked to Lestrade desperately who up until this point had simply been watching. The older man moved around so he was crouched at Sherlock's back. "Sherlock, I'm going to have to pick you up," Lestrade said kindly resting a hand on Sherlock's hip and wincing internally as it felt like he'd put his hand straight onto bone.

There was no response, not that either of them had expected one, so the DI lifted the man who was far too light for his own good up in his arms and held him close as one would a child. Listening to the sobs which tore through his body ripped John's heart to shreds. This man made people cry as he deduced their deepest secrets simply from the lipstick they were wearing, it was quite simply wrong that he was reduced to this.

John and Lestrade hurried back to the police car and Sherlock clung desperately to the older man's neck and buried his face into his shoulder. He was no longer a brilliant thirty year old man, he was a child who was alone and afraid. With John's help Lestrade bundled the detective into the back of the car and John jumped into the other side, relieved at how warm the car felt compared to outside. Quickly with Lestrade's help he set to work knowing he should really take Sherlock to hospital but he didn't think Sherlock's fragile mental state would be able to cope, the DI had obviously come to the same conclusion.

Together they peeled away Sherlock's soaking dressing gown and t-shirt, grimacing as he saw the lacerations on Sherlock's arm, before John dumped his own jumper on him and Lestrade wrapped him in his jacket. The two of them were cold but it was nothing compared to what the frozen detective was feeling. Soon they were speeding their way back to Baker Street, the car heaters on full. John held the detective in his arms gently stroking the matted curls reassuringly and muttering comforting words in his ear. However Sherlock remained oblivious to all of this. He just kept on muttering, "I'm sorry John."


	10. I want to be better (I'm not sure I can)

_Final chapter, YAY! This did take longer than I intended it to but it is significantly longer than I anticipated it being so I hope it was worth the wait. I had to write half of it tonight (I've been writing constantly since 10:30pm and now it's 03:15am) because I am starting university in two days! :D So I'm not sure when my next opportunity to write will be but I am glad I got this chapter (and story) done before I left. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and please don't forget to review. It is super important you do this time because it is the last chapter. ENJOY!_

**It's nothing to worry about**

**Chapter 8**

**I want to get better (I don't think that I can)**

All the way back to Baker Street John could feel his best friend's thin frame shivering violently against him. Despite the measures to try and keep him warm he was still frozen even after John had managed to find a couple of bright orange shock blankets under the seats and wrapped the younger man tightly in them. Every few seconds he would see Lestrade glancing in his rear view mirror to check on them, it was kind of sweet but John wished he would just focus on driving because then they'd get back to Baker Street faster. The quicker they got to Baker Street the sooner he'd be able to get Sherlock warmed up and then he'd be able to check on his friend's wounds and see if a trip to hospital was necessary. He really hoped it wouldn't be necessary because he wasn't sure Sherlock would be able to cope with that, not right now anyway.

'_Sometimes I don't know why I bother with you because right now I'm not entirely sure you're worth the effort.' _John's own words from earlier that evening echoed loudly in his ears, a stark reminder that Sherlock was in this state because of him so he was damn well going to fix it. Subconsciously he pulled his friend closer to his person protectively. Sherlock was definitely worth the effort, despite all of the baggage, figuratively speaking, he came with. What Sherlock had said to Julie earlier was wrong, there were no two ways about it, but the younger man didn't know better. Other human emotions were something he didn't really understand. But John did know better, there were no two ways about that either, and he had absolutely no excuse for saying the things he did to Sherlock. At the time he had meant them, he was angry, but now he wasn't angry and he could see how utterly untrue his words were and how cruel he'd been to his best friend. First he'd get the detective warmed up and recovering and then he'd go about apologising.

A few seconds after they pulled up outside Baker Street the door was flung open to reveal Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway. She'd obviously gone up and seen the state of the flat, John was yet to see how bad it was, and had been anxiously waiting for them to return. She was really very sweet but her fussing was not what Sherlock needed right now. Together John and Lestrade managed to manoeuvre the worryingly passive detective out of the car and then practically carry him up the steps into Baker Street as he could barely get his legs to move let alone support his weight.

"Oh my, what happened?" She asked, not even bothering to try and mask the concern which filled her voice. Instinctively she put a hand to his forehead and hissed as she felt how cool he was. "Oh, John dear, his lips are blue." Immediately John looked at his friend's face more closely, his lips hadn't been blue earlier so that was definitely not a good sign. Desperately he searched through the mass of blankets surrounding Sherlock and dug out a hand revealing nail beds which were also tinged a disturbing shade of blue. "Damn it," he muttered loudly. "Mrs Hudson, go upstairs and run a warm bath whilst we get him upstairs. Then make him some soup if you have any and a cup of tea." Normally John wouldn't boss her around like that, he wouldn't boss anyone around like that, but this was urgent and she seemed to understand that manners would be taking a backseat until Sherlock was out of the danger zone. She nodded, eager to help, and headed up the stairs as quickly as her hip would allow, as the three men made their way slowly and laboriously up the stairs behind her.

* * *

No matter how hard he tried John could not ignore the state the flat was in, more specifically the kitchen. It looked more like somewhere that had been recently bombed than somewhere people prepared food or, in Sherlock's case, carried out meticulous experiments. The table was on its side and various colourful liquids formed puddles on the floor. Nothing remained on the cabinets but shards of porcelain and china which had once been mugs and crockery. Amongst all this destruction and devastation there was one sight in the kitchen which drew John's attention, a dent embedded conspicuously in the wall which had not been there earlier in the evening. And the worst part of it was there were smudges of blood within it. Despite John's inferior deductive reasoning even he could tell that this was made by Sherlock punching the wall in a rage, the doctor's gut twisted as he once again realised whose fault all of this was. He must have punched the wall pretty hard, probably hard enough to break a finger or two.

Forcing himself to ignore these harrowing images John continued his journey to the bathroom by which time the bath was half filled with water and the air in the bathroom was both warm and moist. "I wasn't sure if you wanted bubble bath in there so I didn't put any in and I didn't know how warm to make it so I had to guess…" she rambled nervously, she was practically oozing with worry for her obviously sick tenant. The doctor was only half listening to her as he sat Sherlock down on the closed toilet seat and reached into the cupboard for the thermometer. "Thank you Mrs Hudson, you're a saint," he commented, truly grateful for all she was doing for them. The doctor reached down and popped the thermometer into the detective's mouth, his body had listed to the side slightly where he was resting at an angle against Lestrade's leg and his head was resting on the older man's hip. It was kind of stupid but everyone expected Sherlock to spit out the thermometer as soon as it was placed in his mouth but he didn't which caused everyone yet more worry.

Soon the thermometer beeped, John frowned at the reading, and everyone burst into action. Mrs Hudson went off to make the tea and soup whilst John and Lestrade unravelled Sherlock from his cocoon of jackets and blankets and dumped him unceremoniously into the bath. This elicited the first real reaction they'd gotten from the detective since they'd bundled him into the taxi other than his creepily compliant behaviour.

There was a small gasp of surprise and a brief pause before he started to frantically try and scrabble back up onto his feet; his movements were clumsy and uncoordinated, completely different from his usual graceful self. Of course the slippery bottom of the bath prevented his feet from getting purchase so all he succeeded in doing was pushing himself up slightly before his injured feet slipped and he landed again with a thud on the hard surface. Firmly John and Lestrade held his shoulders down to stop him from hurting himself any more than he already had. After a few more seconds he stopped struggling and instead began to let out small whimpers of pain which tore and both of the elder men's heart. The water which seemed quite an ambient temperature for them must have felt like it was searing through Sherlock's cool skin but they couldn't afford to cool the water down, Sherlock's body temperature had to increase. John wanted nothing more than to hoist the damaged man out of the bath and heat him up some other way but he knew he couldn't, this was the most efficient way considering he was attempting treatment at home rather than a hospital. However he was rewarded when Sherlock's lips gradually changed from the unhealthy and disturbing blue colour to a healthier pinkish colour.

At this point both the doctor and the DI relaxed slightly. John sent Lestrade off to find Sherlock some warm clothes whilst he tended to Sherlock's injuries. He couldn't help the few tears that ran down his cheek as he saw the cuts on his arm, thankfully they weren't too deep but they were there. He'd cut himself and run away to try and get hold of drugs all because John couldn't control his temper. Damn it, he'd been keeping himself composed so well. The doctor only gave himself a few seconds to deal with the overwhelming sense of guilt which washed over him; there were more important things to be tending to. Wallowing in self-loathing could wait until Sherlock was no longer on the brink of freezing to death or at risk of getting an infection from one of his lacerations.

With gentleness that only a doctor caring for his best friend could possess John began to wipe clean the cuts, each one causing regret to shoot through him. All in all the cuts weren't too dirty, a few of them had small pieces of grit stuck in them from where Sherlock had been lying on the floor but apart from that they were ok. Still the doctor cleaned each and every single one of them meticulously, unwilling to let his friend suffer any more than he already had.

Near the crook of his elbow Sherlock had a particularly deep cut so John began to dab at it with the cloth, removing some of the dry and crusted blood. "John, no, please stop," Sherlock whimpered quietly causing John to look up in surprise.

"Hey," he said kindly, keeping his voice down. "How're you feeling?"

"Mm cold," he slurred slightly.

"I know you are but this bath is doing you good. You'll be up chasing criminals in no time. Look, let me take your temperature again," John said reaching for the thermometer and going to put it in Sherlock's mouth. Characteristically, though unexpectedly, Sherlock bashed John's hand away and shook his head. His caused John to smile, that was more like his Sherlock than the passive shell he'd been looking after for the past however long it was.

"You need to let me take your temperature you idiot. If I don't know if you've warmed up at all you'll be staying in there all night." The detective huffed and then complied begrudgingly with John's wishes. "I'm just going to finish cleaning these." At this Sherlock's eyes went wide as he looked down at his arm, as if only just realising John had seen his self-inflicted injuries. He opened his mouth to speak and the thermometer fell out and landed with a _plop_ in the water but he made no move to retrieve it.

"I-I'm sorry John. I d-didn't mean to… You don't have t-to clean them. I won't… It won't happen… I'm sorry," he finished finally, looking down as if the bath water as if it were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. His eyes began to sting as he fought back tears that were threatening to pour from his eyes.

John was going to leave again and he'd be alone. He knew John didn't like him cutting, he'd tried to stop for John, but he'd gone ahead and done it anyway. It'd felt good whilst he was doing it but John hated it and now John would hate him and leave all over again. He hadn't meant to upset John earlier either, he was trying to protect him because Julie simply wasn't good enough for him but then John had gotten all upset and Sherlock still didn't know why. That fact frustrated him, he was so stupid. Why couldn't he figure it out? _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ his internal monologue ran.

"Stupid."

"Idiot."

"Freak."

"Waste of space.

"Nuisance."

All these things ran through his mind at lightning speed and he raised his hands to tug at his curls as was his habit when he was emotionally distressed. But gentle hands caught his before they could entangle themselves and then his hands were enveloped by their warmth, they were like an anchor which pulled him back to reality and away from his mind whilst it was attacking him. Slowly he looked up from the water and met brown, concerned eyes. "It's alright Sherlock, I'm not angry, I promise. We'll talk about all this later but really, I am not at all angry at you." Sherlock didn't think he could believe him but there was something in his voice, something genuine that he wasn't used to, that made him want to believe him. The detective nodded and John smiled at him. He reached to the bottom of the bath and placed the thermometer back in his mouth and John continued cleaning out the cuts.

About a minute later there was a light tapping at the door and Lestrade opened it slowly looking in. "How's it going?" he asked, looking at Sherlock, concern was coming off him in waves.

"Sherlock was talking earlier which is a good sign. Are you feeling any better mate?" John asked, looking up at him. As if in response the thermometer went off and Sherlock removed it from his mouth, giving a slight thin lipped smile as he glanced at the reading, before presenting John with it triumphantly. Unlike Sherlock the doctor gave a wide grin, delighted at the reading. "Well, it's still below what I'd like it to be but you're not going to immediately die so that is a definite improvement." The Detective grunted and made a move to stand up but was stopped by John's gentle but firm hand. "Is there anything else that hurts or needs fixing? If there is we might as well get it sorted now."

Sherlock didn't reply and the silence stretched out awkwardly, and that answered John's question much more clearly than Sherlock ever could. If there had been no more injuries then he would have been certain to inform John of this even in his odd state. His silence was worrying; it was obviously something he didn't want John to know about. Suddenly John remembered Lestrade and looked at him, he'd been too busy worrying about Sherlock to even consider why he'd come in to the bathroom. "Sorry Greg, was there something that you wanted?" Lestrade nodded, having to peel his eyes away from Sherlock.

"Um, yeah. Sherlock doesn't really own anything warm, well, except that big ass jacket of his. Otherwise there's nothing." John should have known that, hell, he did know that, it had just hadn't crossed his mind when he told the DI to find Sherlock warm clothes.

"Well, er, get some pyjama bottoms for him and then go up to my room and look for the biggest jumper you can I suppose. I can't think of anything else." Lestrade nodded and disappeared, closing the bathroom door behind him.

Once the door had clicked shut John turned his attention back to Sherlock. "C'mon mate, what's hurting you?" he asked in a tone which said Sherlock needed to tell him because he wanted to help. In a voice which sounded impossibly small for the usually unquenchable personality Sherlock replied, "Feet." John had not been expecting that, he didn't really know what he had been expecting but that wasn't it. Although, Sherlock hadn't been wearing shoes before, well he hadn't taken any off him before getting him in the bath.

Gently he lifted Sherlock's foot out of the bath, the top was fine. But when he checked the sole he winced, there was glass in there. Maybe they would be having a trip to the hospital after all. Although, it did all look rather close to the surface, he could give it a go with the tweezers.

Luckily he managed to get the glass out with tweezers relatively quickly and efficiently. Sherlock was definitely uncomfortable but who could blame him? He was sitting in a bath wearing nothing but a pair of boxers after being found crying in the pouring rain by his best friend then carried up the stairs, the same friend who had just cleaned out his self-inflicted wounds. Now he was sitting there whilst Lestrade held his foot in place and John was dabbing each of the wounds with antiseptic. All Sherlock wanted to do now was get out of the bath and crawl into his bed and never emerge again.

It wasn't long before John was all done and, after warning him his feet were going to hurt like hell whenever he used them for the next few days, helped him out of the bath. The doctor did not lie and the detective couldn't help the hiss which escaped through his teeth. Lestrade draped a warm fluffy towel over his shoulders and then presented him with a pile of his clothes and John's cream coloured jumper sitting on top. "Do you need a hand or will you be alright?" John asked though he was obviously uncomfortable with asking.

"Of course I'll be alright," Sherlock snapped, a hint of his normal personality showing through. Usually John would have snapped right back at him but not this time, this time he smiled obviously relieved. "Alright, we'll be in the living room if you need us."

The two men walked out and closed the door gently behind them. As soon as the door was shut John automatically seemed to wilt, leaning against the wall and rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "You alright?" Lestrade asked, making sure he kept his voice low to prevent Sherlock from overhearing them.

"Um, yeah. I don't know, maybe." John took a deep breath to steady himself. "I mean, did you see him before? He shouldn't look like that; nobody should look like that, but especially not him. He's meant to be invincible. And I did that to him, he's like that because I couldn't keep my damned mouth shut." The doctor finally voiced the guilt that had been plaguing him, his voice also kept low but he sounded angry and very stressed.

Lestrade patted John firmly on the shoulder and shot him a sad smile. "This isn't your fault mate. What happened was always going to happen, he was always going to have a breakdown and relapse into his cutting. The only reason he ran out of the flat was because I found him. Doesn't make it my fault though. You getting angry at him may have triggered it but it was always going to happen. And everyone gets angry at him, you do much better than everyone else, myself included, but it doesn't mean he sometimes has it coming. Hell, I've decked him a few times after he overstepped the mark. Trust me, he's already forgiven you. Hell, in his mind there will have been nothing to forgive. Though he wouldn't admit it out loud he thinks the world of you John." A moment of silence passed between them as John processed what Lestrade had told him.

"I'm not really buying all of that Greg, but suppose for a second any of that crap was true, it doesn't make me feel any better about my role in this."

"It never does mate, just keep looking after him like you have been and over time you'll stop tearing yourself up over it. Now, I think we could both do with a cuppa." At the thought of tea John nodded his head eagerly and they both moved into the living room.

What they found in the living room was not what they were expecting. Mycroft was sitting back comfortably in Sherlock's chair sipping gently at a piping hot cup of tea. The pristine man looked completely out of place in their humble flat. The homeliness and general disorder of 221b contrasted greatly with Mycroft's perfectly tailored attire which practically screamed of grandeur that Baker Street simply did not have. Two freshly made cups of tea sat innocently on the coffee table; it was obvious the elder Holmes was there for a chat. John was about to take a seat when he heard a slight scuffling sound from the kitchen causing him to look around to see what was going on. Two suited men were busily sweeping up smashed pieces of glass and crockery and mopping up spilled chemicals. Both Lestrade and John had to force themselves not to burst out laughing at how ridiculous the sight was.

"I thought you would appreciate that mess being cleaned up," Mycroft stated following their gaze. The sudden sound drew the two men away from the scene before them and they sat down, Lestrade slightly nervously and John did it simply out of curiosity for what Mycroft had to say. He never paid a personal visit to Baker Street unless he deemed it absolutely necessary. If he ever wanted to speak to John personally he'd kidnap him. If he wanted to speak to Sherlock he would call him, if his younger brother was in an amiable mood then he would tolerate talking to Mycroft. However if Sherlock was not in an amiable mood no amount of kidnapping or harassment would make the stubborn man listen or respond to what was being said in any way.

"How is my brother?" Mycroft asked. His tone was as neutral as ever but he seemed to lean forward slightly. After years of knowing Sherlock both men were experts at reading the Holmes' and they both knew that this spoke volumes of the deep concern Mycroft was feeling, even if he wouldn't admit it.

"Not brilliant," John responded the supped up his tea. At this point in time he thought he could do with a slightly stronger drink but he did not voice this out loud. "He's a lot better than he was when we first got him home. How much do you know?" John didn't really want to go into too much detail on Sherlock's condition with Mycroft but it would help if he knew exactly what Mycroft knew so John would know exactly what to leave out.

"I know he relapsed back into self-harming and I know he ran away from here in the pouring rain and that he disappeared from our surveillance. I'm assuming that something happened, he probably became hypothermic at the very least." Lestrade nodded.

"We found him in front of his old dealers flat but he hadn't gone outside. He had hypothermia when he came in."

"His temperature is still a couple of degrees lower than I would want it to be," John continued from Lestrade. "But he is out of the danger zone in that respect. Being in a set of warm and dry clothes should help a lot and Mrs Hudson is making some soup for him which should do him a world of good."

Mycroft nodded. "I should like to see my brother now Dr Watson." Ah, there was the Mycroft Holmes John knew and loved. Well, maybe not loved, perhaps tolerated would be a better word.

"Well you can't see him right now, he's getting dressed," he responded slightly irritably. He then carried on in a softer voice. "Anyway, no offence Mycroft, I'm not sure that seeing you would be in his best interest. I mean you two aren't exactly close and stressing him really would not be a good idea right now."

"I understand your concerns Dr Watson but I still wish to see my brother once he is decent. I assure you though that if I believe that my presence is causing him any emotional distress then I shall leave."

"Fine," John replied knowing that no matter what he did or said. I Mycroft wanted to see Sherlock then he damn well would be seeing Sherlock.

The next few minutes passed in awkward silence as they sipped at their tea. Lestrade and John were not sure what to do or say and Mycroft sat across from them, staring at them both with an analytical gaze making the other two men feel highly uncomfortable and as if they were being judged every time they so much as moved. When Sherlock wandered into the room neither John nor Lestrade could have been relieved. Sherlock looked rather adorable; he was stumbling slightly as the hypothermia had messed with his coordination and his feet had to be hurting him. The jumper he was wearing was ill fitting, being too short in the arms and body but it hung loosely from his thin frame. His curls were damp from the bathwater and hung limply down by his pale face. Vibrations shook his body as it fought to raise his core body temperature. The fact that he was shivering was a good sign. When they had found him he had been shivering but by the time they had made it back to Baker Street he was not which, when hypothermic, was definitely not a good thing. With his own temperature regulation systems back online Sherlock's recovery should occur much more efficiently.

Strangely enough Sherlock did not seem surprised by his brother's presence, instead he just looked annoyed. "Get out o-of my ch-chair," Sherlock ordered him, fighting hard to control his shivering. Mycroft complied without a single argument and took a place on the sofa which surprised everyone but the detective thought pointing this out was far too much effort so he just sat down. The others in the room didn't have a death wish so decided not to mention it either. As soon as Sherlock was sat down he found himself being tucked under several layers of blankets courtesy of one Dr John Watson and then the thermometer was put in his mouth again, he was already sick of it. "I'm going to go downstairs and see if there is any soup for you," John told Sherlock. "Don't you dare spit the thermometer out until it has finished reading." Before he went down the stairs John shot a look which said he better make sure things between Sherlock and Mycroft didn't get nasty and the DI nodded.

"I was worried about you," Mycroft commented as soon as John was out the door. Lestrade looked on in shock. Such an emotional statement coming from a Holmes was completely unheard of. Sherlock seemed to ignore him, drawing the blankets closer to his body to salvage more heat. "How many cuts?" Mycroft asked sadly and Sherlock sent him a look. Greg couldn't believe what he was seeing. Mycroft was being sensitive and Sherlock had given him a look which spoke of unfathomable pain, something which had been with him pretty much since the day he was born. "That bad?" Sherlock nodded and the thermometer beeped, the detective spat it onto the floor glad to be rid of the thing. "How deep were they? Are you in need of any medical supplies?" Sherlock shook his head. "Well Sherlock, I am very glad that you are allowing the Detective Inspector and Dr Watson to care for you."

Suddenly Mycroft's phone began to ring, he slipped it from his pocket and sighed when he looked at the caller ID. "Excuse me," he said before standing and heading to corridor. "I thought I said specifically not to interrupt me."

…

"I don't care, don't interrupt means don't interrupt."

…

"I hope you realise that right now I am incredibly displeased with you. I am not a good man to make an enemy of."

…

"Oh just tell me, you've already interrupted."

…

"Fine, I'll be right there. But once I have found out who is responsible for this I assure you, there will be an execution at dawn."

When Mycroft walked back through into the living room Lestrade pretended not to have heard the violent threats and Sherlock just didn't seem interested. "I am afraid that I have been summoned," the elder Holmes apologised. "I shall have to leave, but if you need anything to give me a call." The last statement was issued as an order and directed at Lestrade who simply nodded in response. After years of knowing the man he still intimidated him, it probably had something to do with the fact that if it took Mycroft's fancy he could easily make Lestrade simply disappear. "I'll come and see you as soon as this latest crisis is over Sherlock," Mycroft said to the younger man, placing a hand comfortingly on his shoulder. The detective flinched at the contact but did not pull away and a small smile played at the edges of Mycroft's lips. The look was there momentarily before it was lost to the usual look of bored indifference Mycroft wore. He strolled casually out of the flat, swinging his umbrella in his right hand as he did.

* * *

Not long after Mycroft had disappeared John reappeared carrying a large cup of soup. "Mrs Hudson made this for you," John said, handing the cup over to Sherlock who curled into it to soak up any heat which emanated from it. "It's lentil, your favourite," he continued whilst bending down to pick up the thermometer which had been cast onto the floor. 35.2 degrees, that was much better than it had been but there was still a little way to go yet. John wandered through to the kitchen, pleased to see the mess had been cleaned up and the men had left, and put the kettle on to make Sherlock a tea. "Where did Mycroft go?" he called across.

"He was summoned by a lesser mortal by the sounds of it," Lestrade replied joining John in the kitchen. The doctor smirked and carried on with what he was doing. "Look, John, I hate to abandon you but I should probably get back to the Yard, my superiors are going to want to know what the hell is going on." John nodded in understanding and gave him a grateful smile.

"That's fine Greg, you've been a great help. And, er, cheers for trying to make me feel better."

"Any time mate. Just give me a call if you need anything." They said goodbye as John poured hot water over the teabag then Lestrade left down the stairs and John made his way back to the sitting room. It was time to talk to Sherlock.

The doctor placed the cup of tea down on the coffee table and sat down and carried on with his own cuppa. Sherlock was taking gentle sips from the mug; he seemed calm, small vibrations still wracked his body occasionally but he was beginning to regain what little colour his face would usually bear. "Sherlock," John began, knowing if he tried to put it off he wouldn't be able to manage this talk at all, it was going to be intense and of this he was sure. "Look, I know you won't want to, hell, if I'm going to be honest I don't really want to, but we need to talk about this. We need to talk about me getting angry, you getting upset and doing… doing that to yourself." John wasn't sure why but he couldn't bring himself to say self-harm out loud. Not to Sherlock and not about Sherlock, it just felt wrong. "You running off and nearly dying. Even you must realise something has to be done about this."

John stopped, feeling his blood pumping through his ears, waiting for Sherlock's reaction. He expected anything and everything as he really could take this attempt to initiate a conversation a multitude of ways. "John, please, can we not discuss this?" His voice sounded pleading which was incredibly uncharacteristic and all John really wanted to do was tell him everything was alright and that they never had to discuss it ever again if he didn't want to. That voice, it tore viciously at his heart and it destroyed him to see his friend, the brilliant man, reduced to such depths of despair that he would plead with a man so ordinary as Dr John Watson. But he couldn't give in to Sherlock's wishes because in the long run it would do him good.

"No Sherlock, we need to discuss this. I really am sorry mate but we do." The detective looked up at him, his eyes were practically begging John to just drop the subject and the doctor could feel his resolve beginning to crack. Those brilliantly blue eyes should not be speaking of such pain and should most certainly not be glazed over with unshed tears.

"Please John, we can discuss it later, I-I promise. I'm just so tired. Please, can I go to sleep?" Sherlock was asking his permission to sleep? That certainly was unusual and very painful to hear. Taking a longer look at the detective John could see that he was, in fact, completely exhausted which come to think of it was not exactly surprising. His eyes were rimmed with dark shadows, his skin was still paler than usual but was not the unhealthy grey it had been earlier and his eyes were slightly blood shot. John couldn't say no, as a doctor he knew that getting a good night's sleep could do wonders for a person.

"Alright, but I swear Sherlock, as soon as you are conscious again we are having this conversation." That came out a lot firmer than John had intended but it seemed to have the desired effect. Sherlock nodded, looked down and took another sip of his soup. "Well you finish that up and then head off to bed," he said firmly but gently. Surprisingly Sherlock did have all the soup and didn't complain once. Perhaps John should remember soup as a possibility next time Sherlock refused to eat for days.

Getting Sherlock into bed was a long and painful process. Every joint in his body ached from where the cold had soaked in and each of the lacerations on his feet had become tender. Whenever Sherlock put any pressure on them he couldn't help but moan as the pain shot through his feet like electrical impulses. In the end John basically had to carry him through to his room. Once he was settled down John turned to leave but Sherlock's arm shot out from under the covers and grabbed John's arm. The doctor turned to look, curious, and his heart melted at the look Sherlock was giving him. John couldn't help but wonder when he had become such a softie.

"John?" Sherlock whispered, his voice was thick and he was probably fighting off any tears which might fall.

"Yes Sherlock," John replied kindly. Suddenly Sherlock looked alarmed and he let go of John's jumper and began to curl in on himself. "Hey," he said, perching on the edge of the bed. "It's alright, what is it you wanted?"

"Nothing, it doesn't matter," he murmured, trying to turn away from John but the doctor would not allow him to do so.

"It does matter, come on, what do you need?" the detective turned his head towards the doctor, his eyes searching, a mere shadow of the usual, purely analytical look he would use on anyone or anything which stimulated any sort of interest whatsoever in his mind. John smiled kindly and patiently which seemed to convince Sherlock to ask whatever it was he wanted to ask.

The man who was currently looking far too fragile pushed himself into a sitting position then rested his back against the head of his bed, clearly feeling exhausted from that slight movement. John had to force himself not to help his friend, feeling independent in every way he could was important for Sherlock right now whilst he was obviously feeling so vulnerable. "John, can I ask you something? It is important?" he asked hesitantly, John couldn't help but notice how he seemed to studiously avoid eye contact.

"Of course Sherlock." Sherlock took a deep breath, seemingly to mentally steel himself.

"Are you my friend?" That, John had not been expecting and it kind of hit him where it hurt. Wasn't it obvious how much Sherlock meant to John? But then again this was Sherlock, the master of misunderstanding and misinterpreting his and other people's emotions, especially when they were connected to him directly. And after John got so angry at him he was probably struggling to understand all the emotions which were involved in this situation. The doctor felt a tear slide down his cheek as he realised just how deeply the words he said earlier had wounded Sherlock. He'd always been so sure of their friendship and now he doubted it. He really needed to fix this before it got any worse.

Apparently he had been silently mulling the question over in his mind for far too long. "I'm s-sorry, it was a stupid thing to ask. I-I am sorry," he said looking away once again and he drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Crap. He only had moments to fix this.

"Of course you're my friend, you are my best friend." Sherlock still seemed to be withdrawing into himself so John had to do the only thing he could think to do. He reached out and held Sherlock's chin and turned it so he was looking directly into John's sad eyes. The doctor was now openly crying, distraught at how despairing his friend was and upset in his own part in making him that way.

"Listen," he ordered, keeping a hold of Sherlock even though he was trying to pull away. "You are a deductive genius and you have always had the uncanny ability to read me like an open book. You can tell I am telling the truth when I say you are my friend, my best friend. I am so sorry for what I said to you earlier, it was wrong, but I am still your friend and I want to help you." Sherlock's eyes searched desperately, hoping that John was indeed telling the truth. Nobody had ever thought of him as their best friend before. All he could see in John's eyes was honesty. Desperately he clung to his friend without even realising it. The relief was overwhelming, John still liked him and it felt better than he could possibly imagine. At some point he felt John lying him down and then stroking his hands gently through his hair. He felt safe and protected and content, feelings he could not remember feeling in a long time, if at all, and it was with these feelings that he fell asleep.

* * *

_The yard was completely deserted, the sounds of his shoes echoed loudly in the abandoned offices. It was daytime outside so why was nobody there, at all? There didn't seem to be any power either, none of the computers seemed to be powered up and there were no flashing lights on any of the hubs like there usually would have been. Sounds of London permeated through the empty rooms. Sherlock looked around, there was no sign that anybody even worked there. There was no paperwork in the trays, no personal photos scattered around the place and no abandoned coffee cups which were always permanent fixtures at Scotland Yard. _

_Slowly Sherlock made his way through to Lestrade's office, carefully looking around him all the way there for any indication that people usually inhabited the building but there was none. And if he could spot nothing then there was obviously nothing to spot. The detective let out a sigh of relief when he saw John standing and looking out the window, hands clasped behind his back. There was something strange about his posture but he was too intrigued about Scotland Yard to concern himself with that for now. "John, there is something strange going on," he announced and John turned around. There was something weird going on with him too and it was beginning to make Sherlock feel uneasy. _

"_Do take a seat," John said casually as if nothing strange was going on around him._

"_I don't think…" Suddenly Sherlock found himself sat in Lestrade's chair; he wasn't tied there but no matter how hard he tried he simply couldn't move. He was stuck._

"_John?"_

"_Shut up!" John shouted violently, slapping Sherlock squarely on the cheek, Sherlock tried to raise his hand to clasp his cheek but he found that he could not. What was going on, he was scared now? "I have had enough of you Sherlock. I've decided to do the kind thing for the rest of the world and rid it of you." He produced a nasty looking blade from his trousers and began to twiddle it about playfully between his fingers. "I might as well have a little fun in the process though," he continued. "I mean, you do deserve it from the amount of pain you have caused me since I met you." Sherlock shivered slightly, this had to be a dream, it had to. He tried to pinch himself but obviously he could not. But there was no way this was real, him and John were friends._

"_I thought we were friends," he stated defiantly._

"_Ha!" John laughed as if he'd heard the funniest joke in the world and Sherlock felt his stomach drop. He'd been so sure, he really thought him and John had been friends. _

"_Why would someone like me want to be friends with a freak like you?" he asked whilst still laughing horribly, it was more like a cackle than anything. Sherlock shrugged and dropped his head in shame. How had he been so stupid? Of course John was right; nobody like John could possibly even want to associate with someone as messed up as Sherlock. "Answer me!" John shouted angrily, raising Sherlock's chin with the blade of his knife forcing him to look into the same eyes he'd seen earlier. The eyes were kind but the words were full of hate._

"_Y-you wouldn't," Sherlock stuttered hesitantly, now absolutely terrified of the situation he found himself in. _

"_Correct," John replied in a voice of absolute loathing. "Now Sherlock, tell me what you are. I told you earlier so I hope that big brain of yours can figure it out." Sherlock had to pause to replay their conversation and once he worked it out he felt sick, he didn't want to say it but John looked a little too keen to start playing with that knife for Sherlock to be willing to antagonise him at all._

"_I'm a freak," he replied in a choked sort of sob. This hurt, John had been his best friend and now all John wanted to do was hurt him. _

"_Aw, poor baby's crying," John mocked. Then suddenly the doctor thrust the knife into Sherlock's arm and he howled. His arm exploded in a miasma of pain. John began to carve his arm and after the 'F' Sherlock knew it would read 'Freak.' He could feel skin tearing and muscle ripping and it was absolute agony. Somehow he managed to control his stomach and not throw up. "I want the last thing you see to be this, to make sure you die knowing what a freak you are." Sherlock looked up and he no longer only saw John but also his father slicing into his flesh. Their faces alternated quickly. This was the last straw and he vomited violently everywhere just as the room around him was beginning to shake. There was someone calling his name, the pain in his arm began to lessen. What the hell was going on?_

* * *

"Damn it," John muttered when Sherlock threw up the remainder of his soup from earlier, at least he'd had time to digest some of it, the skinny man really needed to get as many nutrients as he possibly could. But that was something to think about another time; right now he needed to get the distressed man awake.

It was had been about quarter past three in the morning when John was awoken from where he was lying on the couch by the whimpering and moaning of the detective. John was instantly on his feet and running as fast as he could into Sherlock's bedroom. He was lying incredibly still except for his head which he was waving about frantically. He was crying out in what sounded like fear and pain but it was hard to tell. There were words coming out of his mouth frantically too though they were mostly indecipherable but John was sure he heard his name in there a few times. All he knew was he had to get Sherlock awake. Suddenly there was a get wrenching sob and Sherlock threw up all over himself. "Sherlock" John shouted, turning Sherlock's head to the side to stop him choking on his vomit. "Sherlock, wake up!" he tried again, this time shaking Sherlock's shoulders. Before long the cries of pain became quieter and quieter until Sherlock shot up from the bed, eyes wide and breathing elevated. If mind numbing terror had a face it would be the look Sherlock was wearing.

The detective took one glance at John's worried face and scrambled desperately, obviously terrified, to the other side of the bed. Worry twisted relentlessly at John's gut; that must have been a horrific nightmare. "It's alright Sherlock," John said reassuringly, not too sure what to do. Maybe he should call Lestrade; Sherlock needed help right now and if John couldn't help maybe that would be best. John decided against, that would be a last resort. Sherlock shook his head violently and wrapped his arms around his body protectively.

"Please don't hurt me," he begged, looking at John with eyes wide with fear and John gawped, did he really think John would hurt him?

"Why would I hurt you? You're my friend, friends don't hurt each other. Not on purpose," he added at the end remembering his words which had caused this whole catastrophic event. Sherlock looked at him with a look of utter confusion.

"But you said… you told me… you could never be friends with a freak like me." John hated that word, he really did. But he was beginning to understand what the dream was about and why Sherlock was so afraid of him.

"That was a dream Sherlock, I would never say something like that to you, I promise. You are my friend; do you remember me telling you that earlier right after you went to sleep?" Sherlock nodded though he didn't look convinced John was telling the truth. "What I said earlier is still true, and you deduced I was telling the truth now because you are a genius and you are brilliant."

The detective still looked scared but when John walked over to him he didn't pull away. Tears were streaking their way down his cheeks leaving shining trails over his prominent cheek bones. "Do you believe me?" John asked gently, kneeling in front of his friend. Sherlock nodded, looking very young as he frantically tried to swipe the tears away. Without even thinking about it John raised his hand and rubbed the tears away with his thumb affectionately. The sharp smell of vomit was very pungent as the sick still rested on Sherlock's chin and was streaked down the jumper he was still wearing but John didn't mind. It was worth it to see the look of utter shock on Sherlock's face which soon morphed into one of trust. That was the look John had been longing to see ever since the incident with Julie.

The doctor took this as his cue; he needed to get Sherlock sorted. The younger man allowed himself to be led out to the living room then sat on the sofa. John helped him take the dirtied jumper off, draped a blanket over his slender shoulders, and then handed him a damp cloth to wash his face with. For a moment John disappeared to strip Sherlock's bed and Sherlock felt such a deep sense of loss that he began to cry all over again, he no longer cared if anyone saw him, he just didn't want to be alone and he didn't want to be without John. John made everything hurt just a little bit less.

The doctor made sure he was quick as he stripped Sherlock's bed and bundled the whole mess into the washing machine as he could hear Sherlock's sobs, each one tore a new wound into his already damaged heart. Deciding remaking the detective's bed was going to be too much for Sherlock to cope with right now he returned to his friend's side and helped him up, intending to take him up to his own bedroom to sleep. The distraught man took one step on his damaged feet which then decided they had suffered enough abuse for today, and he fell backwards onto the sofa, letting out little choked sobs as the pain shot through him. In the end John did carry him up the stairs and into his room. It was a slow journey and by the end John was completely exhausted. All the way up Sherlock had clung to John as a small child who had just fallen over and hurt their knee might cling to their father. His head was buried into the crook of John's neck and the older man could feel the warm tears flowing onto his skin. He couldn't help but feel relieved that Sherlock's body was now releasing heat so he must be pretty much recovered from his brush with hypothermia. That was one less thing to worry about.

Half way up the stairs Sherlock choked out, "John, it hurts."

To which John replied, "I know it does mate, I know." They both knew Sherlock wasn't just referring to the physical injuries he had sustained. When John tried to lay Sherlock down on the bed the detective refused to relent his vice-like grip from John's jumper so in the end he resigned himself and lay down next to Sherlock. It felt weird but he knew it was what he had to do. If being close to John was going to help Sherlock then John would make sure he stayed close. Sherlock snuggled in close to his best friend, enjoying his warmth, and John ran his hand comfortingly up and down Sherlock's spine. Soon the sobs coming from Sherlock began to increase until he could barely breathe and his head pounded. "Shh, it's alright Sherlock. Just try and calm down, you're going to make yourself sick again." It was easier said than done. He'd finally let his guard down and the floodgates were open, years of emotional pain and turmoil were flowing through. He finally felt safe enough and cared about enough to let John see him for what he really was. Broken.

Eventually he managed to calm himself down but John still held him, letting him know that no matter what he was not going to go anywhere. All his life Sherlock had coped without someone he could rely on, and now he had someone he could trust, he didn't think he could go back. "John," Sherlock whispered with a thick voice.

"Yes Sherlock," John replied.

"I want to get better."

"That's good, that's very, very good Sherlock," John said, smiling.

"I don't think I can."

"Of course you can, you have people who love you. Me, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly. We'll help you get better. Hell, Mycroft cares though I'm not sure you'll believe me on that one." Sherlock chuckled and John felt so much better for hearing it. "You can get better and you will, we'll help, you don't need to worry. Just get some sleep."


End file.
